Come Together
by AfraidOfFalling
Summary: There are some people who won't, or can't, Let It Be.  Despite discord, our characters draw closer - but to their benefit, or to their detriment?  No actual Beatles references besides the title, and no non-canon pairings.
1. Caution, or Lack Thereof

**A/N: All right, so here's the first chapter! This is the sequel to Let It Be, but don't worry if you haven't read Let It Be; I think everything in the second chapter will make it clear as to what's going on. Of course, if you want to know **_**why**_** Voldemort's dead and such, you should probably go read Let It Be. It's only eleven chapters long—about 13000 words.**

**Disclaimer: I am not JKR—her plot is much more fascinating than mine. As such, only the plot in this story is mine.**

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Chapter 1: Caution, or Lack Thereof

~.~.~.~

It is strange when the sun manages to beat _coldly_ down upon something, especially when it is almost summer, but this was precisely what the sun proceeded to do. For after all, not even a huge, burning sphere of gas can quite extinguish that chill which turns one's insides to prickly ice at a dementor's mere approach; thus, when one remains in a dementor's company for prolonged periods, the sun's starkly-bright vigil, by reminding you of that unattainable warmth, does indeed manage to increase the cold one _seems_ to feel.

So the sun beat coldly down upon Azkaban, and the witches and wizards locked tightly within the prison's walls flinched away from the sun's freezing warmth and light and cowered into the deepest, darkest shadows of their cells. There was one prisoner, there for so long that his identity was lost even to himself, who called the sun The Light Creature and spoke the title with a fear far surpassing that which is inspired when one considers the usual Dark creatures. And indeed, many of Azkaban's prisoners came to fear the sun more even than they feared their guards, those terrible dementors. Many wizards, upon viewing this phenomenon, have suggested that the terror stems from the blackness of the prisoners' souls—that a soul such as those jailed within Azkaban shrivels at the touch of the sun's rays of pure, good Light. Pragmatic sorts have often countered that idea, arguing that if such a thing were true, our souls would all shrivel, at least a bit, in the sun's presence; these wizards have then begun wondering about the possible spiritual ramifications of sunburn.

Meanwhile, the prisoners of Azkaban spend their days screaming, crying, laughing, and plotting as they slowly, torturously, inevitably lose their sanity.

But we mustn't forget the other prisoners, trapped in discomforting living situations, whose alleged sins, ineptitude, or misfortune are punished in manners entirely separate from the legal system. View the unemployed reporter, whose hair is frazzled, messy, and filthy, whose glasses are in sore need of repair, whose nails are chipped and filled with dirt. She huddles in a pub, hiding her face in shadows in the fear that someone might recognize her and how far she has fallen. Her hand itches to take up her quill and write revenge on the people who have done this to her, but she is trapped in a glass jar, so to speak, and cannot get out without risking getting squashed.

See also the woman who itches for power, only to have it snatched from her stubby grasp without warning, leaving her leaping at the sides of a deep trench, only to find her efforts futile: her enemies walk right past her and laugh at her pitiful attempts to discipline them.

Finally, watch the uncertain step of a boy whose father has been locked away, leaving the son all alone in a world terribly harsh toward supporters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. How dare they lock his father away merely for his all-too-true belief that Muggle blood tainted the wizarding race? How is he supposed to calmly continue schoolwork while remaining in the near vicinity of those credited for destroying the Dark Lord and capturing his followers? But how also could he stand against those people—the supposedly-untouchable contemporary heroes of the wizarding world?

These are just three examples of prisoners who would do anything to regain their place in the world. Should one fear them? Or, at the very least, be on his guard in case they should escape?

Harry Potter certainly should. But he has never been known for caution, has he?

~.~.~.~

**A/N: Ahhh! This is scary; I've never started publishing a story before I've finished it. **

**I'm hoping to publish a chapter every one or two weeks. I'll still be writing one-shots while I write Come Together. Hopefully life will be kind to me and allow me lots of time and energy and creativity to write...**

**Suggestions are always welcome! I'll try my darnedest to keep this story from turning into one of those poor, lonely fanfics that are abandoned halfway through. You, dear reader, can help me by reviewing, for the more I know that people care about what's happening, the more motivated I'll be to keep writing! ; )**


	2. A Normal Kid

Chapter 2: A Normal Kid

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Harry tucked into some delicious treacle tart at the end of term feast. Ron and Hermione chattered contently at his sides, and not even the green-and-silver decorations the Great Hall sported or seeing Cho over at the Ravenclaw table (Voldemort's defeat had briefly improved Harry's relationship with Cho, but it hadn't lasted, and he hadn't spoken to her outside of D.A. meetings since April) could dispel his wonderful mood.

He was going home—home, that was, to Sirius' house, for the newly-freed man was finally able to take on the full brunt of his duties as Harry's godfather. Harry would never have to go back to the Dursleys' again. He could not help grinning as he thought about it.

A day after Harry had awakened from this year's near-death experience, Madame Pomfrey had allowed a large, excited black dog to visit Harry. Sirius was happier than Harry had ever before seen him: his eyes were alight with joy and his shoulders seemed to have had a terrible burden lifted from them—a burden Harry assumed came with the knowledge that one was a fugitive.

"Harry!" He had exclaimed, smacking Harry comradely on the shoulder. "Glad you made it, kid! You've heard the news, haven't you?"

Harry had grinned. "That you're free, you mean? I saw it in the _Prophet_."

"You've got it, Harry. And you know what that means, don't you?" He had continued, and Harry had wondered if his smile could get any wider—and if it could, would his face split?

Other than those haphazard wonderings, Harry's mind had been blank; he had been so pleasantly surprised to see Sirius here at Hogwarts that he could not really think beyond the present. He had shaken his head in response, bemused.

"Well, with me free, and you my godson, guess who could have legal guardianship of you, if you so choose to allow it?"

Harry's jaw had dropped open. "You mean I could come live with you?" He had so successfully squashed the idea of living with Sirius after third year that he had not even thought of it in response to Sirius' freedom nearly two years later. He had grinned again, even more widely than before, and had hugged his godfather compulsively.

"Yeah, mate. Dumbledore said that it's fine and everything. It's all settled, if I am correct in assuming you like the idea."

"Like it?" Harry had repeated disbelievingly. "I love it!" No more creeping around the neighborhood trying to avoid Dudley, no more Aunt Petunia screeching at him to make breakfast, no more Uncle Vernon yelling at him with his tomato-colored face and locking him in his room. Instead, he's get to spend all summer with Sirius, his dad's best friend, and he wouldn't even have to worry about Voldemort or Death Eaters, because Voldemort was dead, and all the Death Eaters were in Azkaban.

He would finally get to be a normal kid.

Harry lurched back to the present with a nudge from Ron. "Hey, Harry," Ron mused, nodding up at the Head Table, where Umbridge was watching Dumbledore and frowning. "D'you reckon she's going to be back next year?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't really care. She can't do anything, and we'll just continue the D.A. if she does come back. And considering McGonagall managed to get my Firebolt back for me, I'm sure McGonagall's promise that I'll be able to play Quidditch again next year will hold."

Hermione leaned over to them. "It doesn't seem like Umbridge's enjoying herself much, not like before—when she was High Inquisitor. But I rather doubt she'll leave; I think she considers it her duty to "fix" this school, and I think she'll continue being a terror even if she doesn't have the might of the Ministry behind her. She'll probably spend all summer devising ways to make us suffer."

Ron snorted. "Aw, come on, you think we should be worried?"

Hermione looked pointedly at Harry. "Considering Umbridge is out to get Harry, I'd say so."

Despite Hermione's warnings, Harry could not bring himself to feel any concern. He felt invincible—nothing could spoil the joy that consumed him. Even when he glanced past Umbridge and saw Snape, trademark scowl upon his face and black eyes roaming belligerently over the rows of students, his contented smile did not falter.

Indeed, if anything, thoughts of Snape merely heightened his mood: after he had been released from the infirmary (about a week after he had awoken), he had quickly run into Snape:

"Potter. I see that you have managed to recover, so I expect you in my office this Monday at six," Snape had sneered, his face every bit as unpleasant as it had been before Voldemort's demise.

Harry had narrowed his eyes. "For what?" He had asked sharply. He had not anticipated finally being free of the hospital wing only to have to continue spending time cooped up in Snape's prison of an office.

Snape had glowered at him. "For your remedial potions lessons, Potter. What else?"

"But I don't need to take Occlumency anymore!" Harry had exclaimed. "Voldemort's dead. All the Death Eaters are in Azkaban."

Snape had scoffed. "Are you under the deluded impression that the only people who pose any threat to you are the Dark Lord and his followers? You have plenty of other enemies, Potter." The way he had glared at Harry had convinced Harry that Snape considered himself one of them.

Harry's anger had swelled. "Look, I don't want to take lessons from you. There's not a chance I'm going to learn anything with your ugly nose in my face," he had spat. He had immediately regretted the statement, but to his surprise, Snape had not lost his temper. Snape had twitched strangely and his eyes had gone momentarily blank before settling into an expression of disdainful indifference. "Twenty points from Gryffindor, Potter," he had whispered with malice, and then he had spun around and swept away, leaving Harry staring, nonplussed, after him. Quickly, relief usurped his confusion—not only did he not have to worry about Voldemort anymore, but he officially was through with Occlumency.

Hermione, unsurprisingly, had been none too thrilled about this arrangement. At dinner, when Harry had told her and Ron of the conversation, she had frowned.

"But Harry," she had argued, "if Snape thinks you still need Occlumency—"

"—He'd have argued much longer than he did," Harry had finished, and she had sighed and allowed Ron to change the subject to the latest Chudley Cannons game. Still, Harry had caught her staring at Harry, then at Snape, then back again at Harry, and he had wondered why she thought it was such a big deal.

Of course, Occlumency was not the only thing that Hermione thought was a "big deal:" The O.W.L. examinations had been rapidly approaching, and Hermione soon had copied out study schedules for Harry and Ron and berated them constantly about not completing their mountains of homework to the standard that she thought was necessary. Following their meetings with Professor McGonagall, Hermione had stepped up even more, especially regarding Harry's and Ron's potion-making abilities.

"Harry, Ron, you _know _what Professor McGonagall said: nobody who scores anything below an Outstanding in Potions will be able to continue on to N.E.W.T. level! You _do_ want to be Aurors, don't you?"

"Well, yeah, Hermione," Harry had begun, uncomfortable. "But we can't do better in Potions class. You know how it is—Snape's always breathing down our necks and docking points for no good reason—how am I supposed to concentrate with that greasy bat fluttering around?"

Hermione had huffed in frustration. "Harry, Professor Snape's really not that bad! Come on, this is the man who was awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class for _destroying Voldemort_!" Not that many people had paid much attention to that small detail—Snape had continued to hate everyone, everyone had continued to hate Snape, and the vast majority of people had decided to believe that Harry had had a lot more to do with Voldemort's defeat than had Snape. Malfoy and some of the other children of Death Eaters, however, had begun behaving in a remarkably cooler fashion toward their Head of House.

Hermione had continued arguing on Snape's behalf: "If you would just give him a chance, Harry—"

"—Give him a chance?" Harry had broken in heatedly. "He never gave _me_ a chance! He's always just been, 'you're a horrible good-for-nothing brat, just like your arrogant celebrity father, you're a stupid little dunderhead, you'll never amount to anything because you're a pathetic idiot!' Come on, Hermione, how can you possibly expect me to learn from _Snape_, of all people?"

Hermione had pressed on relentlessly. "But Harry, people can change, and if you'd noticed, Snape's been a lot, well, _fairer_ to you of late."

Harry had scoffed. "Barely. He's still a complete git." Ron had nodded in agreement, and Hermione had slumped in aggravated defeat. There had been a moment of silence, and then Hermione had sighed.

"Well, if you really want to show up Snape, why don't you study like mad and pull an Outstanding on your O.W.L.?"

Ron and Harry had turned to stare at her, grins spreading across their faces.

"That's our Hermione," Ron had laughed, clapping her on the back, while she blushed slightly at his fond tone. "Always thinking!"

The boys had immediately taken to studying extensively for the Potions O.W.L., and when they had taken the examination, they each had come out of it feeling as if they had done quite well. Harry thought there was a good chance that he would be able to take Potions the next year, and he smirked gleefully at the thought of walking into the Potions classroom the next fall and savoring the priceless look that would assuredly be on Snape's face.

Sudden silence descended, and Harry looked up from his musings. At the High Table, Dumbledore was standing.

"The end of another year," he smiled. "One full, I'm sure, of many happy memories and some sad ones, of much learning and probably much forgetting, and of battles lost and wars won. I hope you each have felt cultivated by your experiences this year, and I hope your summers will be equally fulfilling—as well as, of course, wildly _fun_. Good luck to those who will be leaving us, and I'll see the rest of you in September!"

He sat back down amid a sudden scuffing of benches and shoes as students began leaving. Harry stood up with Ron and Hermione and walked back to Gryffindor Tower, his stomach heavy with savory food and his heart light with happiness.

~.~.~.~

**A/N: Let me know what you think! = )**


	3. Scheming Schemes

Chapter 3: Scheming Schemes

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Albus, standing in the doorway of the Entrance Hall along with the Heads of House, watched the thestrals lead his students away from the castle. He gazed up at the sky, pink and blue and gold in the morning sun. How many times had he stood at these very steps, watching the children of Hogwarts depart? How many faces had he met, seen grown up, and sent away to their futures? He had lost count long ago, but the scene never grew tiresome for the old man; he loved his students—all of them: from the timid little first-years to the tall, confident seventh-years, and all of the students in between.

People said that he had a favorite—that he doted on Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. They were probably right, Albus mused—Harry had been through so much and was centric in the most important of Albus' schemes: Albus could almost not help having become attached to the boy, could not help adoring the child as if he were Albus' own grandson.

This was perhaps the best part about being headmaster at Hogwarts—despite that he had never had a child of his own (how could he have, after all?), he could play the part of father or grandfather whenever he chose, to as many students as he wanted, and he loved this.

Yes, he probably spent a bit too much time pretending to be Harry's grandfather…but was it such a terrible thing? After all, the orphan needed a father figure in his life.

Ah, which brought his thoughts to Severus. How would Albus get those two together? Albus had thought that Severus, of all people, would recognize that a boy always wanted a father to respect, to look up to. Albus had since realized that this was precisely why Severus refused to tell Harry of his true parentage—Severus was wholeheartedly convinced that Harry would never be able to look up to him, and that the boy was far better off believing that the heroic, talented, popular Gryffindor was his father rather than knowing his father was a bitter, vengeful ex-Death Eater.

How would Albus convince them otherwise?

His only solution so far was to continually place the two in situations that might draw them together—that might lead them to respect each other, without being too overt. Stage One had just begun.

Albus glanced over at Severus, whose black robes ruffled in the soft breeze. His obsidian eyes were narrowed in the direction of Hogsmeade, as if still glaring at the backs of the dunderheads now out of sight. The corner of Albus' mouth lifted; he knew perfectly well why Severus was angry: Harry was to live with Sirius this summer.

Despite his refusal to take an openly active part in the care of his son, it galled Severus to no end that Harry would be spending the summer months in close quarters with a man Severus entirely despised. Severus had never forgiven Sirius for Sirius' careless, immature, and admittedly highly dangerous actions in the past. Albus wished Severus could let these things go, but he was not holding his breath. Severus, after all, could not forgive _himself_, much less forgive another.

As events stood, though, Albus meant to take advantage of the animosity between Sirius and Severus. The more displeased Severus was about his son's given situation, the more likely he would be to try to change that situation, and the more closely he would intertwine his life with Harry's.

Albus sighed. It would, of course, eventually become necessary to bridge the gap between father and godfather, else Harry would be caught in the middle of a violently angry tempest that would tear them all apart.

Severus heard Albus' sigh and looked over toward him. "What are you sighing about, Dumbledore?" His voice held a bit of scorn in it, for Severus assumed that Albus was saddened by the passing of the year and that for the next months the halls of Hogwarts would be still and quiet. Albus_ was_ rather melancholy about this, and was unashamed to admit it.

"Now, now, Severus," he smiled with twinkling eyes. "Don't tell me you won't miss _any_ of the students—we know you better than that."

Severus' face contorted as if he had tasted something sour, and Minerva, Pomona, and Filius chuckled at the idea of Severus ever missing one of those "obnoxious little dunderheads." Albus, however, held Severus' gaze for a moment longer, so that Severus became uncomfortable and turned away.

Albus grinned to himself. Oh, he'd get Severus to openly admit he cared about Harry. It might take a while, but he'd get there.

~.~.~.~

**A/N: No, getting Harry and Snape to be a happy little family is not the main plot of this story; don't worry. Unless you **_**want **_**that to be the main plot, in which case, I'm sorry. Comments, suggestions, criticism...I love it all; so please review! = )**


	4. A Well Deserved Scolding

**A/N: A rather large bit of dialogue from HBP was adapted for use in this chapter.**

Chapter 4: A Well-Deserved Scolding

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Snape smirked as he stepped from the fireplace into his office. He had been looking forward to this for over a month—from the moment Dumbledore had mentioned the venture to him. Of course, part of him wished to demand that Dumbledore not come with him, but he knew fully well that he would indeed need someone there with him to keep him in check.

He strode through his office and up the dungeon stairs, emerging in the Entrance Hall and spotting the headmaster as he descended the marble staircase.

"Ah, Severus. You are ready, I presume?"

Snape nodded curtly and joined the headmaster as he exited the castle and made for the gates. Shortly thereafter, they Disapparated, sending their bodies through that uncomfortable tunnel and landing with another pop in a place Severus had never before visited. Dumbledore extinguished the streetlights with several clicks of a small silver instrument, and they marched silently up the street and turned up a dark driveway, coming to a halt outside a perfectly-normal-thank-you-very-much door. Dumbledore rang the doorbell.

Presently, the door opened, and the Snape beheld a large, rotund man in a puce dressing gown who sported an impressive set of whiskers on his face. The man's eyes bulged as he stared Dumbledore and Snape up and down.

Dumbledore smiled at him. "Good evening. You must be Mr. Dursley. I daresay your wife told you I would be coming?"

Dursley did not answer, and Snape smirked at his expression.

"Judging by your look of stunned disbelief," continued Dumbledore cordially, "Mrs. Dursley did _not_ warn you that I was coming. However, let us assume that you have invited my colleague and me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps: they have a tendency to close before long."

His eyes twinkled merrily behind his golden glasses as he stepped through the door. Snape silently strode forward as well, standing to the side and just behind Dumbledore, gazing around at the immaculate hallway. Pictures covered the walls, portraying people that Snape knew from Occlumency lessons as Vernon, Dudley, Petunia, and Marge. There was not a photo of Potter in sight, of course.

"It is a long time since my last visit," Dumbledore told Vernon, who looked up at him in mingled terror and indignation, a blood vessel in his temple throbbing. "I must say, your agapanthus are flourishing."

There was a moment of silence, and Snape shifted his weight, causing the floor to emit a small creak. Dursley jumped slightly and glared at Snape, and he finally opened his mouth:

"I don't mean to be rude—" he started to say haughtily.

"—yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often," Dumbledore responded, his voice calm and somber. "Best to say nothing at all, my dear man." He looked down the hall at the sound of the kitchen door opening. "Ah, and this must be Petunia."

It was indeed: clad in nightdress, housecoat, and rubber gloves was a thin blond woman with a long face and neck. She was older, yes, but even without having seen her in Potter's memories, Snape would have had absolutely no trouble recognizing her through his own memories of Lily's Muggle sister. Her eyes widened as she took in her visitors' appearances, and then she took a step backward.

"Snape!" She spat, her eyes fixed on Snape's. Out of the corner of his eye, Snape saw Vernon shoot a surprised look toward his wife and turn to view Snape suspiciously.

Snape gave the woman a feral smirk from where he stood. "Petunia."

Dumbledore stepped forward with a smile to break the uncomfortable silence. "Albus Dumbledore. We have corresponded, of course."

Petunia's eyes flickered from Snape to Dumbledore and back again. She looked as if she wished to say something, perhaps to demand that they leave her house at once, but when faced with the cheerful, commanding figure of Dumbledore, her courage failed her.

A big blond head popped out from behind a doorway, peering with fear, curiosity, and a misleading innocence that made Snape want to give the bully a taste of his own medicine: he had seen the way Dudley had treated Potter, and it reminded him closely of the way Snape himself had been bullied in his own childhood.

"And this must be your son, Dudley?" Dumbledore assumed out loud. The Dursleys did not answer, but stood frozen and silent, staring at the wizards in their midst.

An awkward silence ensued, which Dumbledore broke while still wearing that insufferable smile: "Shall we assume that you have invited us into your sitting room?" He strode off to it; Dudley skittered out of his way in a manner that Snape found quite remarkable, given the boy's size. Dumbledore entered the room and sat in an armchair, gazing about the place merrily. Snape followed him and took the other armchair. Cautiously the Dursleys crept into the room, and Dumbledore used the sofa to knock them off their feet as he explained, "We may as well be comfortable."

The Dursleys seemed too terrified to try to get up from the sofa, and simply sat on it tensely while Dumbledore continued: "I would assume that you were going to offer us refreshment, but the evidence so far suggests that that would be optimistic to the point of foolishness." He waved his wand and poured the contents of a bottle into five glasses and distributed them about the room. "Madam Rosmerta's finest oak-matured mead," he informed the Dursleys. They refused to drink, which Snape conceded was intelligent of them, as they had no way of knowing their drinks were not poisoned.

"Now," Dumbledore said, and paused. The Dursleys somehow grew even more tense. "You will remember that I left Harry Potter on your doorstep fifteen years ago, with a letter explaining his parents' murder and expressing the hope that you would care for him as your own."

He paused again, and Snape felt his icy anger, though his facial expression did not change.

"You did not do as I asked. You have never treated Harry as a son. He has known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands—"

"That's a ruddy lie!" Vernon snarled, throwing off his terror for once. "Whatever that boy's told you isn't true—" Snape cut him off and stood, his wand extended toward the man. He did not mean for the glasses still bobbing beside the Dursleys to explode; the mead splattered the three Muggles liberally, though luckily none of the three were cut by the glass.

"Not true?" He snapped venomously, though he kept his voice at a low volume. "Not true? I have seen what Potter has experienced in your hands, Dursley. I have watched him be half-starved while your own son received gigantic portions; I have watched Potter do all the hard work in this house without any thanks or even a proper dinner; I have watched your son torment, chase, and beat him numerous times. I know you made him sleep in a cupboard for the first ten years of his time here, even though you had two other bedrooms he could have used."

"B-but you knew about the cupboard. The letter said—"

"Unfortunately," Dumbledore broke in, "we did not know of the cupboard. The letters are automatic; we do not read the addresses except in cases of Muggle-borns. I admit I had suspected that you would be reluctant to tell Harry of his abilities, but I never imagined that his relatives would treat him as a slave; I did not know of the extent of your abuse until Severus here informed me." His blue gaze pierced into Vernon's and Petunia's faces, and they blanched.

"The best that can be said," Dumbledore sighed, "is that he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you." The Dursleys looked at each other, perplexed.

"Us—mistreat Dudders? What d'you—?" but Dumbledore put Vernon off by raising his index finger.

"We must make sure these wrongs toward Mr. Potter are redressed. As such, we require you to each write a thoughtful and sincere letter to Harry in which you admit the ways you have wronged him and ask for his forgiveness. We hope that this experience will be humbling. If you do not comply, well—" Dumbledore glanced at Snape with a strange glint in his eyes, "—I'm sure Severus and I can work out another, far less pleasant, method to rectify this situation."

The Dursleys stared at them wordlessly; Vernon's mouth opened and closed repeatedly. Dumbledore nodded and stood up, and indicated for Snape to do also. They turned for the door. "I shall return in three days to pick up your letters," Dumbledore finished, and the wizards strode out.

Snape smirked slightly as they made their way back to the street. He knew from experience how terribly difficult letters of apology could be to write. How many hours had he spent scratching out futile attempts to get his Lily back in his life after he called her a Mudblood? At least for him, he had actually wanted to be forgiven—he hadn't been forced to write those letters. He let out a heavy breath. He had never tried to apologize for his greatest crime against her, having had placed a Memory Charm on himself as to forget it. Now that he knew of it, it was far too late.

He and Dumbledore Apparated to the entrance of Hogwarts and walked toward the castle.

"Well," Dumbledore mused, "I think that went fairly well."

Snape nodded. "It was good to see Tuney again."

"Ah, yes, and I'm certain she felt just as happy to see you as you were to see her."

Snape smirked. By now, they had reached the entrance hall, and he turned toward the dungeons. But as he descended the stairs, his mood faded, and a slight frown set his countenance.

He was ill at ease. The Dark Lord was dead. His loyal Death Eaters were in Azkaban. The Ministry was behaving quite apologetically toward Dumbledore, and Umbridge was now only about a quarter as annoying as she had previously been. Harry Potter appeared to be safe, unless one was counting the fact that he was currently under the guardianship of someone utterly unfit for the job. Snape's reputation as a bitter, snarky Potions bat was firmly intact; mutual hatred was assured between him and his students. The Dursleys had been satisfactorily punished. Everything seemed to be going perfectly.

Which meant, of course, that something had to be about to take an entirely _imperfect_ turn.

He entered his office and sank into the chair behind his desk. Five years of putting up with Harry Potter had left an indelible impression upon Snape that nothing stayed quiet for long, and he was not about to be pulled into a false sense of security. Especially considering the little-known fact of Potter's parentage….Snape hoped to Merlin's notoriously-bushy eyebrows that the boy would never find out.

But enough on that thread of thought—Snape was sure, utterly certain, that he was about to be caught up in yet another novel-worthy set of circumstances in which Harry Potter's life would once again be at stake. Call it paranoia; call it pessimism; call it realism—Snape would call it simple, inevitable Truth.

~.~.~.~

**A/N: I hope you're enjoying Come Together! Reviews (especially those containing constructive criticism) are always appreciated, my dears!**


	5. Surprises

Chapter 5: Surprises

~.~.~.~

Harry blinked his eyes blearily in the diffused light that shone past the curtains. He was about to turn over and go back to sleep when he remembered what day it was.

How could he have forgotten? It was the last day of July—his birthday! He sat up quickly and swung his legs over the side of his bed. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes and slipping on his glasses, he gazed around his room for the umpteenth time. Harry felt far more welcome here than he had ever felt at the Dursleys, even though the room still retained a slight feel of the Black family's Dark history. The wardrobe in the corner housed his robes and his clean clothes; other bits of apparel were strewn about the floor. Next to the wardrobe was his trunk, which was mostly empty. On the other side of the wardrobe was the window, large and stately, which was covered by thin curtains that fell to the floor. An old lamp he didn't care for much—it looked to him like one a Dark wizard would own (its stand was wrapped with sinuous cast-iron serpents)—was in the corner between the window and Harry's bed table, which featured a smaller reading lamp and a magical alarm clock. His bed was covered by a red duvet with embroidered gold lions, and the door to the hallway was lined by a bookshelf and a desk.

Hedwig's cage took up a portion of the desk, while four letters lay strewn across the rest of it. Three of the letters were unopened: Dumbledore had explained what they were, and Harry had no interest in reading the Dursleys' forced apologies.

The other letter was well-worn with careful reading, both by Harry and by his best friends, for it was his O.W.L. results. He smiled as he remembered. They hadn't known when their results would be arriving, but by coincidence Ron had invited Harry and Hermione to the Burrow the day the results came, so Harry and Ron got to witness Hermione's priceless reaction. Harry shook his head ruefully. How was it that she was actually disappointed with all Outstandings except one Exceeds Expectations? His and Ron's grades were much worse, but they were quite pleased by theirs. They'd both managed an Outstanding in Potions, thanks to their feverish studying of the subject in the last months leading up to the exams, and Harry had also earned an Outstanding in Defense Against the Dark Arts. He'd gotten Exceeds Expectations in everything else but Divination and History of Magic, for which he received Poors. He was quite pleased with the E's, and did not mind the P's, since he had never expected to pass Divination and did not care to continue taking Professor Binn's dreadfully-boring class.

He smiled as he stood and stretched. He quickly got dressed in something reasonably clean and nearly skipped out into the hallway. He heard a couple of muted noises from downstairs and figured Sirius was already up and making breakfast. His green eyes sparkled—finally he too would get a nice, full breakfast on his birthday, instead of having to subsist off birthday cake and Mrs. Weasley's mince pies (which, admittedly, were quite tasty—but bacon and biscuits and eggs were far preferable for breakfast). Maybe Remus would be there, too—he was in and out of number twelve, Grimmauld Place rather frequently.

He took the stairs two at a time, though he was careful not to make enough noise to awaken Mrs. Black's portrait. He opened the door to the kitchen, but the first thing he noticed was darkness.

His stomach turned—this wasn't right. Where was Sirius? Was he hurt? Dead? He tried to draw his wand, but as he did so the lights came on, illuminating at least a dozen ominous figures situated around the room that stood and shouted something at him simultaneously. He stumbled backward as he raised his wand, and almost fell when he tripped over the rug.

"Harry?" He heard as if from a distance Ginny's voice.

Not Ginny, not Ginny and Sirius both. "Stay away!" He yelled at her, hoping she would obey; there was no way they could last against this many. One shape rushed toward him.

"Harry! It's okay!" And Harry suddenly realized the shape was Ginny—and that the figures in the kitchen were not enemies at all, but friends: people such as the Weasleys, Hermione, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Moody, Kingsley, even Hagrid. Mundungus Fletcher lounged in the corner of the room, appearing quite drunk despite the early hour. Some of the Weasleys wore party hats, and he noticed presents stacked upon the table next to a colorful cake that read, "Happy Birthday, Harry!"

He stared, his chest heaving from his earlier panic. This was—what was it called? A surprise party? Yes, that was it. He had heard other students talking about them before. Sirius had thrown him a surprise party.

He slammed the kitchen door shut, turned, and fled up the hall to the front door, sagging against it. He'd have gone up the stairs to his room instead, but he felt exhausted now.

He had thought his surprise party was a Death Eater attack. What sort of kid his age was that—that _paranoid_? Damaged ones, ones who'd learned to expect it. Scarred, abnormal people. Freaks. He exhaled heavily, closing his eyes and trying to keep them from tearing up. He heard, over the din of Sirius' mother who had awoken when Harry had slammed the door, a murmur of confused and concerned voices from the kitchen, and Sirius barked, "Let me go talk to him. It's all right. Enjoy yourselves, I'm sure he was just..." he trailed off, though, and a second later Sirius came out into the hall. He quickly yanked the curtains over his mother's portrait shut and jogged over to Harry.

"Harry, I don't understand," Sirius began, setting a hand gently on Harry's shoulder. "What's wrong? I thought you'd love a party!"

Harry shrugged his hand away. "I don't want to talk about it, all right?" He bit his lip, looking at the floor and shuffling his feet against the worn carpet.

"No, please, Harry, help me out, here! I mean, James would have loved this sort of thing!"

"Yeah, well, clearly I'm not my dad!" Harry spat.

"But—"

"—_Why don't you get it?_ Why're you just—just standing there, so—so—why don't you_ get it?_ What on Earth makes you think I'd want a _surprise party? _I don't—like—surprises! Surprises are—are Voldemort showing up and trying to kill me—that cup taking me and Cedric Diggory to his death—Ron's pet rat turning out to be a Death Eater! Surprises are so—so—how could you think—JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"Harry," Sirius tried to say—

"—GO AWAY! LET ME BE!" Harry bellowed over Mrs. Black's renewed screams. Harry was shaking, and tears kept attempting to fill up his eyes, and he just wanted to be left alone. Suddenly he preferred the Dursleys' neglect—precious time for solitude—to Sirius' accidentally-careless ministrations.

Sirius opened his mouth to try to say something else, but then there was a knock—a firm _rap rap rap_—at the front door, and they both turned.

~.~.~.~

**A/N: ehh, JKR writes better tantrums...ah, well. Any suggestions for improvement? Sorry for the apparent cliffy, but I bet you all have a fair idea who's at the door, anyway. Please review! = )**


	6. Wolf, Mutt, and Rat

Chapter 6: Wolf, Mutt, and Rat

~.~.~.~

Snape glared at the silver serpent knocker on the grim black door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place as he balanced a large, heavy box against his ribcage. He had heard Potter's voice from within, loud and livid, along with Walburga Black's shrill tones, just a few moments ago. The door had muffled his words, however, so Snape knew nothing about what the boy was yelling. Snape knocked on the door. Half a year ago, Snape would have assumed that The Boy Who Lived was throwing a tantrum about not getting enough presents or not getting to do something he wanted to do on his birthday, but that was before he'd seen that Potter was neglected by his relatives and beaten by his cousin. Now, he did not know what to think—it was not as if Black would completely forget the boy's birthday, and even a simple recognition, Snape thought, would be enough for Harry Potter. About what could Potter possibly be so angry?

He let out his breath in mingled worry and frustration as his thoughts returned to that morning's news. It was on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_: the headline "Breakout from Azkaban" was situated just to the left of a large photo of a revolting little rat-faced coward. Peter Pettigrew had escaped, and there was no telling what the piece of vermin was up to now. Snape frowned. Perhaps Wormtail's escape was the cause of the boy's anger.

The door opened, and Black and Potter peered out at him. Black's face was flustered and perplexed; Potter's was angry and miserable. Snape sneered at Black—the usual greeting.

"What're you doing here, Snape?" Black snarled, his eyes narrowing in hatred.

Snape raised an eyebrow and held up the box, filled with potions flasks, whose contents leaked wispy columns of smoky steam into the air. "It's your wolf friend's time of the month, Black. I've heard he was here. Or has he inexplicably gained the skill and ingredients necessary to brew _himself_ Wolfsbane?"

Black's jaw clenched, but he opened the door further to allow Snape in. "He's in the kitchen," he growled reluctantly, and Snape swept past him, resisting the urge to glance back to watch Potter. The kitchen was filled with Order members and other Weasleys, who had been murmuring to each other quietly until he entered. He ignored their eyes and strode directly to Lupin, who was fidgeting with a ribbon on one of the wrapped packages on the table while Tonks watched him pensively.

"Oh!" Lupin mumbled, breaking the silence, as he saw what Snape was carrying. "Right. Er—thanks, Severus." He smiled thinly as he took the box and placed it carefully on the table. Snape scowled and turned to leave.

"Er, sir," Granger interrupted, "Is—is Harry all right?

Snape just raised his eyebrows as the decibel level in the hallway escalated again. He could not make out everything, but he did catch words such as "hate" and "surprises" in Potter's outburst. Then they heard running footsteps that vanished up the stairs.

Granger and the two youngest Weasleys glanced at each other. They silently reached an agreement and jogged out the kitchen door, no doubt following Potter. Snape continued on his way and met Black just outside the door.

Snape smirked. "Prince Potter doesn't seem very happy, Black. Did you give him your fleas for a birthday present?"

Black's face twisted. "Shut it, Snivellus. Get out of my house."

"What did you do? Throw him a surprise party?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. And I don't see how it's any of your business. Leave, now."

Snape stared at him, losing all trace of hostility in his perplexity. "Why on earth would you throw him a surprise party?"

Black scoffed. "Maybe people like you wouldn't like one, but normal people do!"

Snape raised his eyebrows. "Would you call someone who's been attacked by Dark wizards multiple times over the past few years 'normal?' Potter has learned to expect danger, you inane mongrel. Having him suddenly happen upon over a dozen unexpected people...were you trying to cause him to enter cardiac arrest?"

"What makes you think you know my godson better than I do?" Black barked, advancing on Snape.

"Whenever I provoke Potter, I am unsurprised by his reactions, whereas you don't seem to understand why he's angry right now," Snape responded silkily, refusing to back away.

Black had drawn his wand; Snape's hand tightened on his own, "Realize, Snape," Black growled. "I've only put up with you this past year because Dumbledore said so. If you weren't brewing Moony Wolfsbane, why, you'd be lucky to leave this house in one piece." His wand by now was perhaps a centimeter from Snape's nose.

"What I'm wondering, Black," Snape answered venomously, "is whether _Potter_ is going to leave this house in one piece."

Black bristled. "'Course he will! Better than what could be said of him if he were left in your Dark hands!"

"Oh, really? Did you read the _Prophet_ today, mutt?" Black's face tightened; Snape smirked. "And I'd bet quite a few galleons that he escaped the very same way you did. How does it feel, knowing your little traitor friend escaped prison using the Animagus form _you_ helped to teach him?"

"Huh?"

Black and Snape looked up. Potter was standing on the stairs near the bottom with the two youngest Weasleys and Granger by his side.

Black coughed. "Er...Harry, er...Wormtail—well, he escaped."

Potter's face became blank, flat, and Snape was rather startled—such an expression suggested a definite capability for Occlumency. But it was not as if the boy would ever be willing to have another go at Occlumency, especially if it were to be Snape teaching him. The poor child clearly was not having a very happy birthday. Snape kept his face in its sneer, though within he was frowning. There was a small, strange part of him that wanted to reassure Potter that everything was all right, that Pettigrew would soon be back behind bars where he belonged, that there was no reason to worry. He shook it away: Potter didn't want comfort from him, and such falsities did nobody good. Snape glanced back at Black. He'd probably hounded the dog long enough; it was time to go.

"Good luck, Black," he whispered sardonically, and he strode for the door.

~.~.~.~

**A/N: Please review! = )**


	7. More Ill Tidings

Chapter 7: More Ill Tidings

~.~.~.~

The fireplace in Albus' office flared green, and a thin man in neat Ministry robes stepped out.

"Urgent message from the Minister of Magic to Albus Dumbledore," he reported, holding out a folded and sealed piece of parchment.

Albus Summoned the missive to his desk with a flick of his wand.

"Thank you, good sir," Albus told the messenger, who bowed, stepped back into the flames, and vanished. Albus turned his attention to the message.

It was rather rare that Cornelius sent him messages in this fashion; typically notifications and pleas for advice were not so urgent to disallow the usual owl post. Announcements sent by Floo-messenger contained the sort of information that Cornelius felt Albus needed to know without delay, or at least before the next morning's _Daily Prophet_. Whatever it was, clearly Cornelius saw it as an emergency.

Albus slid his finger under the fold and broke the seal, smoothing the note flat. Cornelius' handwriting, usually meticulously neat and pretentiously ostentatious, was cramped and hurried.

_Dumbledore,_

_Urgent news from the Azkaban guards. Bellatrix  
__Lestrange has escaped. We don't know how.  
__Suspect Pettigrew's involvement. Most recent  
__accounts from Azkaban say she's more mad than  
__ever. What do I do? People aren't going to take  
__this calmly, I—Dumbledore, you've got to help me!_

_With all sincerity,  
__Cornelius Fudge  
__Minister of Magic_

Albus set the missive down on his desk, and he leaned back in his chair. Funny, how things changed. Last time Bellatrix Lestrange escaped from Azkaban, Cornelius had been in denial about Lord Voldemort's return, and was instead convinced Albus was after his job. This time, Albus was back in his advisory role, and Cornelius was tripping over himself to alert Albus and ask for advice.

He frowned. It was also "funny" how the Ministry clearly was much more worried about Bellatrix Lestrange than about Peter Pettigrew. They had no reason to think that he was less dangerous than she. After all, it was Peter who had framed another for his own crimes and faked his own death, thus avoiding capture for over a dozen years; it was Peter also who had helped Lord Voldemort return to power—yet the Ministry seemed much more concerned about Bellatrix than about Peter: Cornelius had let Albus find out from the _Prophet_ that Peter had escaped.

Albus sighed. The day that Peter's escape had been in the newspaper had also been Harry's birthday, and Albus had popped by number twelve, Grimmauld Place as soon as his meeting with the International Confederation of Wizards had finished. Albus had been surprised when he had arrived, as the scene was not half as jovial as he had expected. Harry, it seemed, had had an argument with Sirius in the morning, and so both were sporting rather forced smiles. Still, Harry had seemed pleased to see Albus, and had laughed when Albus had presented him with a pair of warm woolen socks (stuffed full of chocolate frogs). Albus hoped the day had ended up being tolerably pleasant for Harry.

Ah, but he digressed. The recent breakouts were assuredly far more important than a boy's birthday party. He frowned and stroked his beard absently with his thumb. What could the fugitives be up to, now?

Albus suspected that Bellatrix was out for revenge—Severus and Harry had killed her master, and he doubted there was anything she'd love more than to make them suffer. The wards around Hogwarts would have to be strengthened; Severus, Sirius, and Harry would have to be notified; and Albus would have to placate poor Cornelius. He took out two pieces of parchment, a quill, and a pellet of Floo powder, throwing the pellet into the fireplace while thinking, _Severus' home_. He spoke into the fire once it glowed green.

"Severus? I'd like a word."

As he waited for Severus to arrive, he wrote two missives: one to Sirius and Harry telling them of the situation and to be careful, and one to Cornelius suggesting to put his best Aurors to the task of tracking Bellatrix down, naming in particular Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks, and advising the Minister to ask the retired Auror Alastor Moody for help. Albus folded and sealed the messages just as Severus stepped into the office.

"What is it, Dumbledore?" Severus asked sharply. He knew Albus only called him into his office during the summer if there was some sort of emergency.

Albus responded gravely. "Bellatrix Lestrange has escaped from Azkaban." Severus' face grew tight, and his eyes were resigned; Albus could tell that the man had been expecting further unpleasant things to happen.

"I'm going to need you to be on your guard—yes, Severus, even more than usual," Albus added, as Severus had scoffed at the idea that he was ever _not_ on his guard, "—because I think Bellatrix will target you and Harry in particular. Harry and Sirius need to be notified, as well: here is a note for them." He offered the folded parchment to Severus, knowing he would be secretly pleased with an excuse to check up on Harry and to snarl at Sirius some more. Severus took the letter with a curt nod.

"Thank you, Severus." Albus stood up. "I've got to take this to the Ministry, and then I'm going for a walk around the grounds." They each approached the fireplace and disappeared, one after the other, into the curling green flames.

~.~.~.~

**A/N: Just thought a pellet of Floo powder could be useful, and Dumbledore would be the sort of wizard who'd think to create it. Less messy and much easier to throw than loose Floo powder...**

**Please review! = )**


	8. Back to Hogwarts

**A/N: Some dialogue from HBP used here: if you recognize it, it's not mine.**

Chapter 8: Back to Hogwarts

~.~.~.~

"Ready to go, Harry?"

"Yeah," he called, stuffing his feet into his trainers, "just a second!" He tossed the last of his spellbooks and robes into his trunk, snatching and tucking into his trunk his new Quidditch Captain's badge, which had come the day after his rather-disastrous birthday party. Oh, it had turned out all right in the end, though he'd only really began speaking to Sirius in more than short, clipped sentences about a week afterward. But once he'd gotten over the surprise, it was nice to see everyone. Even Dumbledore had shown up!

Harry lugged Hedwig's cage and his trunk out and nearly tripped over Kreacher on the way down the stairs. He grabbed at the banister and managed to regain his balance, throwing the old house-elf a glare as Kreacher scowled and continued on his way, grumbling about filthy half-bloods, blood-traitors, and his "poor mistress." Stumbling down the rest of the stairs, Harry dragged the trunk over to the front door where Sirius and Remus were waiting for him.

"Stupid elf," growled Sirius at the stairs where Kreacher had disappeared from view. "Never there when you want him, but always there when you don't." Sirius was quite grouchy about the idea of Harry leaving for school, not to be back until Christmas, and was taking out his foul mood on the rest of them. Remus put a sympathetic hand on Sirius' shoulder, and both he and Harry were a trifle surprised that Sirius did not shake it off.

"Well, we'd better get going, then," Remus told them, seeing Sirius glance reluctantly at the door. "Harry's train leaves at eleven." Sirius still made no move to open the door, so Remus did. He led the way out into the street, Harry close behind him and Sirius trailing behind. They walked together to the beginning of the street, where a cab waited for them, safely out of view of number twelve's door, to take them to King's Cross. They packed Harry's luggage into the back and then piled into the backseat, Harry sandwiched between his dad's best friends. Harry tried to stick a smile on Sirius' face, so he began teasing Remus about Tonks, who kept popping by Grimmauld Place to see him.

"So Remus, you going to see much of Tonks in the next few weeks?"

Remus sighed in exasperation at his companions while Sirius' face brightened by degrees. "Not planning on it," he replied curtly.

"Why not?" Harry pressed. "She seems to fancy you a lot..."

Sirius' frown had vanished, and a faint smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Come on, Moony, don't try to say you don't fancy her as well..."

A bit of pink tinged Remus' cheeks. "I do not fancy Nymphadora." But his eyes lacked conviction.

"Really? Then why were you staring at her the other day when she was playing Wizard's Chess with Harry?"

"I—shut up! I was not staring!"

"Uh, your gaze was fixed on her lovely face and it was following her every movement. I'm pretty sure that's called staring," put in Harry.

"Admit it. You, Remus Lupin, fancy Nymphadora Tonks," Sirius supplied.

Remus' face was fairly red by this point. "I—it doesn't matter!" Harry and Sirius both smirked. "It'd never work out. She deserves more!"

"For one, _she_ doesn't seem to agree. And for another, how could she even ask for more?" Harry told a very embarrassed Remus while Sirius nodded emphatically in agreement.

"I—it's just—we're here," Remus responded weakly, looking at the window and seeing King's Cross.

Harry paid the Muggle taxi driver and they removed his trunk and owl cage from the vehicle, loading them onto a trolley and setting off toward Platform 9 ¾. Sirius' stride seemed to grow slower and heavier with every step. Once through the barrier onto the platform, the three said their goodbyes.

"It's all right, Sirius," Harry told the once-again moping man. "I'll see you again at Christmas. It's just a few months away."

Sirius scowled. Remus got pulled away by one of the students who had loved him as a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Harry lowered his voice so only Sirius could hear him.

"Besides, I can talk to you all the time 'cause of the mirrors." Sirius smiled thinly at this. Once break had begun, Sirius had asked Harry why he had never used his mirror. Confused, Harry had asked Sirius what he meant—he had forgotten entirely about the package Sirius had sent with Harry at the end of the previous Christmas break. Now that Harry had bothered to unwrap it, he had promised to contact Sirius through it on a frequent basis.

"Harry!" They heard, and they turned. Ron and Hermione were on the platform, along with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny. It had only been a week since Harry had last seen them, but the brief amount of time apart did nothing to dispel his enthusiasm. They greeted each other, gave their family members a last hug, and lugged their trunks onto the train. Ron and Hermione departed for the prefects' carriage, and Harry disappointedly watched his friends leave. Turning, he saw Ginny along the corridor in front of him, talking to some friends.

"Hey, Ginny," he asked when he got closer. "Fancy trying to find a compartment?"

"I can't, Harry, I said I'd meet Dean," Ginny responded cheerfully. "See you later."

"Right." He watched her walk away, strangely disappointed. He blinked, and realized with a start that all the girls Ginny had been chatting with were now staring at him with expressions akin to adoration.

"Hey, Harry!" Neville's voice rang out behind him, and he turned around gratefully. Luna Lovegood was just behind Neville, holding a copy of _The Quibbler_ in her arms. Harry had gotten to know the two rather well due to last year's D.A. meetings, though he still thought they were a bit, well, strange—Luna especially.

"Hello, Harry," she said in that funny, misty way of hers.

"Hi, Neville, Luna," Harry smiled at them. "Let's find seats." He would rather sit with Neville and Luna than have to wander around with all the other students staring at him. Voldemort's demise had created a bit of a ruckus, and Harry as usual was in the thick of it—not only had the _Prophet_ been wrong to question his sanity all year, but he had also had some mysterious part to do with Voldemort's downfall. All the other students knew was that he had spent a week in the hospital wing directly following Voldemort's death. They knew Snape had been awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, but they summarily disregarded it: clearly if it were between Snape and Harry Potter, the hero was Harry. So people stared.

Neville, Luna, and Harry found an empty compartment and put their things in the luggage rack. Neville started to sit, but leapt up with a cry:

"Oi, come back here, Trevor!" He dove under the seat in pursuit of the toad.

"Are we still doing D.A. meetings this year, Harry?" Luna questioned as she pulled a pair of Spectrespecs from _The Quibbler_.

"Yeah, probably," Harry told her. "Since it looks like Umbridge will still be teaching." He made a face as he sat back.

Neville bumped his head against the seat as he extricated himself, still toadless, from underneath, yet he smiled all the same.

"I like the D.A.! I've learned loads with you!"

"I enjoy the meetings, too," Luna added matter-of-factly. "It's like having friends."

Harry awkwardly tried to think of something to say in response, but was distracted by a gaggle of giggling girls outside their compartment. One girl plucked up some apparent courage and strode in with an arrogant air.

"Hi, Harry, I'm Romilda, Romilda Vane. Why don't you join us in our compartment?" She lowered her voice to a loud, carrying whisper. "You don't have to sit with _them_." She wrinkled her nose distastefully at the sight of Neville's rear, now poking up from under the seat again, and Luna's silly-looking spectacles.

Luna and Neville were quite dorky and un-cool, Harry knew, but he would far prefer to stay with them rather than go to some other compartment to be fawned over by a bunch of younger girls he didn't know.

"No, thanks," he answered shortly.

"Really," the girl persisted. "It's no trouble. Why would you want to stay with these two?"

Harry was strongly reminded of Malfoy.

"They're friends of mine," he answered, slightly icily.

"Oh," said Romilda. "Oh. Okay." She left quickly, and Harry breathed a small sigh of relief.

"People expect you to have cooler friends than us," Luna stated.

Harry hesitated for a moment. "You are cool. None of them were in the D.A. They didn't rebel against Umbridge."

"That's a very nice thing to say," Luna informed him with a bright smile before immersing herself in the pages of _The Quibbler_. Neville finally emerged from under the seat, Trevor in hand.

"So," said Harry, casting about for a topic of conversation. "How'd you do on your O.W.L.s?"

He sat back and let Neville ramble about his grades and wonder about what classes he'd be allowed to take. His own mind wandered, for talking to Neville had brought it back into mind. After all, Bellatrix Lestrange had tortured Neville's parents into insanity. And now she and Wormtail were once again on the loose. He vividly remembered hearing about the breakouts—Snape had brought the news both times, interestingly enough. News of Wormtail's escape certainly had not improved Harry's already foul birthday mood, but hearing of Bellatrix's escape had ruined what had been proving to be a splendid day.

Harry had already reconciled with Sirius over the surprise party fiasco, and they had been playing Wizard's Chess in front of the fireplace without a care in the world. Then green flames had sprung up in the fireplace, and who had stepped through but Severus Snape, Harry's hated professor and Sirius' loathed ex-schoolmate? Sirius had leapt to his feet and drawn his wand, but Snape had just smirked and walked forward, holding out a bit of parchment. Sirius had snatched it from him and had opened it. His face had tightened as he read it, and he had passed it to Harry without a word.

Dumbledore's handwriting had stared up at Harry, telling him one more thing had gone wrong, that he was once again in danger, that his life was still refusing to become normal.

Snape had left as quickly as he came after tossing a few insults involving fleas and dog breath at Sirius, leaving godfather and godson alone with the newest bad news.

"You all right, Harry? You look funny."

Harry blinked and looked across the train compartment toward Neville. "Sorry—I—"

"Wrackspurt got you?" Luna asked kindly, still wearing the ridiculous Spectrespecs.

"I—what?"

"A Wrackspurt...They're invisible. They float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy," she informed the bemused boys. "I thought I felt one zooming around in here."

She started waving her arms violently. Harry and Neville gave each other a glance.

"So...how about those Tutshill Tornados?" Harry asked, and Neville lunged into the Quidditch conversation with relief.

The train continued northward as the sun crept higher in the sky. Finally Ron and Hermione returned from prefect duty.

Ron sank into the seat next to Harry and massaged his stomach. "Wish the lunch trolley would hurry up; I'm starving."

"How was prefect duty?" Harry asked.

Ron pulled a face. "Same as usual. Malfoy strutting around terrorizing first-years, Ernie announcing his O.W.L. results to anybody with ears..."

"Oh, Ernie wasn't that bad," Hermione interjected. "I mean, he wanted to know how he'd done in comparison to everyone else, but I mean, I wanted to know that, too..."

"Ernie's definitely loads easier to get along with than Malfoy," Harry pointed out, and Ron immediately agreed. The two quickly fell into a rant about Malfoy's misdeeds and unsavory characteristics. Hermione rolled her eyes and disappeared behind _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6_, and the scenery rushed past their train window as the Hogwarts Express ushered them quickly toward the school.

~.~.~.~

"Trevor!"

Neville's toad had escaped again. Hermione and Luna looked up from their reading, and Harry and Ron ceased discussing the recent staffing changes to the Chudley Cannons. Neville knelt on the floor, scrambling after the toad, while Hermione pulled out her wand.

"_Accio Trevor!_"

The toad zoomed into her hand, and she held him out to Neville.

"Thanks, Hermione," Neville said, turning a bit red at not having thought to use a Summoning charm himself. She smiled at him and started to bury her nose in the textbook again, but was distracted when Luna spoke up.

"Trevor is very adventurous," she stated.

"Er—yes," Neville answered, unsure as to how he was supposed to respond.

"He reminds me of a fascinating little creature called a Not Me. A Not Me is a playful being that likes to cause devastation in a situation and never clean up. They show up especially in houses with multiple children. I'd be surprised if Ron's family didn't have one."

Ron stared at her blankly.

"Well, you know, if a parent spots a muddy footprint on the carpet, the parent will demand to know who made the mess, and if the family has a Not Me, the children will often respond 'Not Me!' Of course, sometimes the children's own actions are falsely attributed to the Not Me, but still, they're quite the mischievous creatures."

Hermione slammed her book shut. "Luna," she sighed, "Not Me's aren't real. They don't exist."

Luna frowned and spoke more sharply. "Yes they do. It's common knowledge that every creature has its opposite. The opposite of a Not Me is a Gerful, and I have irrefutable proof that Gerfuls exist. Thus, Not Me's must exist as well."

Hermione raised her eyebrows and was about to make a retort, but Ron cut in, apparently curious about Luna's latest delusions: "So what's a Gerful, then?"

Luna immediately launched into a longwinded explanation of a small, three-legged mammal with magical powers for things such as dishwashing, room-cleaning, and cold-curing. When Hermione scoffed disbelievingly, Luna crossed her arms, _The Quibbler_ hugged to her chest. "Don't you dare say anything bad about Gerfuls. They're very sensitive. If you say anything derogatory to one, he could lose his powers."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Whatever. But if, as you say, every creature has its opposite, then what is the opposite of a human?"

"Probably heliopaths," Harry muttered. But really, he was getting tired of the argument. Why couldn't Hermione let Luna be? Was there something so terrible in believing in Wrackspurts and Not Me's and Gerfuls? Besides, Harry mused, Not Me's _did_ exist—the Burrow indeed had one.

"Well, humans are empathetic, sociable creatures whose most important attribute is love—"

"—So, Snape is the opposite?" Ron interrupted, and the boys laughed.

Luna tried to continue. "They also use language and aim to be logical in their thinking—"

"—Oh, sounds like Goyle's the opposite, then," Harry added. "He can't think at all, much less logically!"

The boys laughed again, and this time Hermione allowed a small chuckle to escape her mouth.

Luna raised her voice. "—And they're material—solid and subject to the law of gravity."

This time nobody interrupted her, and Neville sat in his seat with his brow furrowed in thought, trying to figure out what the opposite of a human was. Harry and Ron simply couldn't think of another joke.

Hermione drummed her fingers on the cover of her book in irritation. "So, what's the opposite, then?"

Neville's eyes suddenly lit up and he blurted it out: "Dementors!"

Luna smiled a dreamy smile; Hermione appeared a bit disconcerted. "That's right," Luna told him. "Dementors. They have no capacity for love, little interest in community, very little language, little concern for thought except to feed on our memories and souls, and they are insubstantial in form."

Harry shivered just thinking about dementors. He remembered Sirius lying stricken on the ground, hundreds of dementors surrounding him, swarming, gliding... He shook the memory away before he could get too pale.

Hermione was about to respond when the train began to slow as they approached Hogsmeade. "Oh no!" she cried. "I haven't changed into my robes yet!"

They changed quickly and made sure their trunks were secured shut and ready to be taken into their dormitories. The train slowed to a stop at the station in Hogsmeade, and they disembarked to find the thestral-drawn carriages waiting for them. Luna stopped to stroke the black, bony neck of one thestral, which in response gently touched her hair with its dark muzzle. Harry looked on, mystified. Those thestrals to him were every bit as alarming-looking as they were the day he first saw them.

They clambered into one of the carriages, and soon they passed through the gates onto the grounds—the lake and castle now in view, Hogwarts' towers and spires jutting majestically up into the dark sky, its form doubled upside-down in the shining lake, whose surface was flecked with the lights of the lanterns on the new first-years' boats.

They stepped out of the carriage and trod up the steps into the Entrance Hall, turning right and filing into the Great Hall to their tables. Once seated, Harry surveyed the room.

The Gryffindor table was cheerful and talkative: Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were deep in conversation, their voices loud and shrill. The Creevey brothers were talking to some other boys Harry didn't know, occasionally glancing over at Harry. He looked away hastily.

The Hufflepuffs looked content, though Zacharias Smith had his nose up in the air as usual. Several of last year's Hufflepuff D.A. members looked over to Harry and smiled or waved.

The Ravenclaws were a mix of seriousness and eagerness. Michael Corner was talking to Terry Boot, nodding and laughing as Terry told a story about his summer. Luna sat serenely, tucking _The Quibbler_ back into her bag and looking toward the oaken doors through with the new first-years would soon issue.

The Slytherins too were talking loudly. Harry felt hatred boil up in his abdomen as he saw Malfoy smirking in his seat between Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy lifted his eyes from the face of Blaise Zabini, who was in the middle of a tale, to meet Harry's eyes. His smirk grew into a sneer as both boys' eyes narrowed in loathing. When Malfoy looked back toward Zabini, Harry's eyes roved the Hall and settled on the High Table.

For once Trelawney, weighed down by countless draped scarves and bangles, was seated at the table, as far as she could get away from Umbridge, whose toad-like mouth frowned imperially over the heads of the chattering students. At Trelawney's side was Hagrid, who waved at Harry when he saw him. Harry grinned back. On Hagrid's other side was an empty chair that Harry supposed was McGonagall's.

Snape was sitting to Dumbledore's right; the former was wearing his customary black robes and indifferent scowl while the latter was decked out in splendid purple and gold robes and golden half-moon glasses behind which his blue eyes twinkled merrily. Snape met Harry's eyes, and Harry glared for a moment at him before going on. Snape was always such a git to Sirius. True, he'd killed Voldemort last year, but that didn't give him a right to come to Sirius' house and poke fun at him. And Harry couldn't help but connect Snape to the escapes of Bellatrix Lestrange and Wormtail, even though he knew perfectly well that Snape was only the messenger. But why did Snape have to display such glee in telling them the news?

The doors opened, and the little first-years stumbled in, gazing about at the magnificent hall in wonder. They assembled at the front and watched, with palpable anxiety, the stationary Sorting Hat on its stool.

Ron shook his head. "I swear, they get smaller every year."

The Hall quieted; heads turned expectantly toward the Sorting Hat, which seemed to take a deep breath before launching into song:

_It's time again for Hogwarts school  
__The calendar does show,  
__So greetings from the Sorting Hat;  
__I'll tell you where to go.  
__For Hogwarts has four founders:  
__One house to each belongs—  
__And which of these you fit in best  
__I'll tell you by my songs.  
__Black badger in the yellow  
__Is Hufflepuff's good crest:  
__Those loyal, accepting students  
__Here will find their nest.  
__Gold lion on the red field  
__Denotes brave Gryffindor;  
__Daring and chivalry  
__Is what they have at core.  
__Silver serpent on the green  
__Is Slytherin's fine display—  
__Ambition and cunning are  
__Through what they'll find their way.  
__And bronze eagle in midst of blue  
__Represents sharp Ravenclaw.  
__In this house it's intelligence\  
__And learning that is law.  
__Each of these four houses  
__Has both fault and merit,  
__So think not yourself superior,  
__But your weaknesses do admit.  
__For remember, Hogwarts students,  
__Your strength is greatest when  
__You put aside your prejudice  
__And unite Hogwarts from within.  
__So I beg of you tonight,  
__No matter how fate's web is spun,  
__Take Helga Hufflepuff's advice:  
__Treat all as friend—every one._

The Sorting Hat fell silent and the students murmured a bit to each other. The Hufflepuffs seemed rather pleased with their House, but Harry noticed that most of the other students just raised their eyebrows in disbelief and, especially in some of the Slytherins' cases, contempt. The Hat wasn't convincing anyone that the Hufflepuffs weren't just a bunch of duffers. It wasn't as if Zacharias Smith was accepting and warm-hearted. And if the Hat thought Gryffindors and Slytherins could be friends, it was entirely mistaken.

The first-years were called up one by one and Sorted, receiving enthusiastic applause from the members of their respective Houses. Toward the end, Hermione stomped on Ron's foot.

"Stop _fidgeting_!" You're moving the whole bench!"

"Sorry, I just want the food to get here."

"Well, fidgeting's not going to help it along."

Finally the Sorting was finished, and the food blossomed into being on the tables, accompanied by the sudden clinking of silverware and dishware as students eagerly piled food onto their plates. Harry helped himself to some chicken wings and chips as he listened to his fellows talk about their summers and the upcoming year. The desserts soon replaced the food, and Harry tucked into some scrumptious treacle tart. As the eating died down, Dumbledore stood up, bringing a hush over the Hall.

"The very best of evenings to you!" He proclaimed. He gave them the typical welcome-back speech and notifications, and it struck Harry as funny that for the first time, Dumbledore had no need to introduce a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Harry frowned as he looked at Umbridge, whose face was now twisted into a revolting simper. He wished Dumbledore _had_ needed to replace Umbridge. Harry wasn't looking forward to another year of her worthless classes and trying to keep a hold on his temper in them.

Dumbledore finished with a cheerful "Pip pip!" and dismissed the students, and there was a scraping of benches as the students got up to leave. Hermione and Ron hurried forward (with a certain reluctance on Ron's part) to help the first-years, and Harry went with them. Within fifteen minutes he was snugly settled in his bed, but turbulent thoughts about fugitives and teachers kept him up long past the commencement of Neville's snores.

~.~.~.~

**A/N: Not Me's and Gerfuls do exist: our house had a Not Me when we were little, and the Gerful is part of some Bloom's Taxonomy lesson from fourth grade that I hardly remember; the creature is really the only part of it that stuck in my mind—figures, right? Couldn't resist adding them in = P**

**Please review!**


	9. NEWT Potions

Chapter 9: NEWT Potions

~.~.~.~

Snape swept into the Great Hall on Monday morning and began handing out schedules to the Slytherins. They were all set except for the sixth years', as sixth years were the only ones whose choices were constrained by the OWL exams.

"Don't be ridiculous, Goyle, you can't take NEWT Potions with a P on your OWL." Goyle left with his schedule, looking plainly befuddled as to what he was expected to do if not in class with Draco Malfoy.

"Malfoy? Yes, Potions, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Transfiguration, and Charms…why aren't you taking Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts? They're very useful subjects."

The boy scowled and snatched the schedule from Snape's hand, stalking away angrily. Snape stared after him for a moment. Ah, it had probably not been wise to bring up Defense, not when the boy's father was in Azkaban due to the Dark Arts. He shook his head: especially considering Lucius' imprisonment was due to Snape.

While he approved Millicent Bulstrode's NEWT class choices, his thoughts remained on Draco. Draco had always looked up to his Head of House, that is, until the Dark Lord's death and Lucius' imprisonment. Snape wondered how the boy was taking it. Not well, obviously. But was he angry with everyone or just with people, like Snape, whose fault it was? And was he doing anything with his anger or just moping? Snape made a mental note to watch Draco more carefully in the coming months.

Finally all the Slytherins had received their schedules, and Snape was able to sit down at the High Table and partake of breakfast. He nodded a greeting in response to Dumbledore's "good morning, Severus" and reached for a piece of toast, biting into it without bothering to butter it. He sighed. What did he have today? Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff first-years, likely already utterly terrified of him due to the tales told by their older housemates, then Gryffindor and Slytherin second-years, followed by lunch, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw fourth-years, and finally sixth-years. Snape rather liked the NEWT classes, as they were comprised only of students that had shown an aptitude and at least some interest in the subject. They were much more focused, polite, eager. The curriculum was more intriguing, too—NEWT classes dealt with much more complicated potions and techniques.

Four of his Slytherins were going on to NEWT this year: Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Daphne Greengrass. Snape would have to talk to the other Heads of Houses if he wished to find out the rest of the class roster ahead of time, which he did not care to do. He suspected there would be a fair number of Ravenclaws, along with Ernie MacMillan and Hermione Granger. It was not impossible that Potter and Weasley would be in the class; though their general standard of potion-making was inadequate for the NEWT class, he had overheard McGonagall telling Sprout that the two desired to be Aurors, and Snape had witnessed them studying hard in the library even two months before the OWL exam. So who knew?

His musings were suddenly interrupted by one of his least favorite people.

"I've got the new NEWT students for Defense Against the Dark Arts this morning," Umbridge told Snape in a sickly-sweet voice that made him want simultaneously to vomit and hex her. His fists tightened. Why was it that of all the Defense Against the Dark Arts professors Hogwarts had had, it was _Umbridge_ who came back for a second year? Not only was she unbearable to be around, but she was utterly incompetent at teaching, why, Snape could teach that subject a thousand times better than she…. He supposed her being a Ministry official did come in handy.

"I do hope that wretched boy, Mr. Potter, isn't in my class," she continued, oblivious to Snape's annoyance and appearing to expect sympathy from the other Hogwarts professor known to despise The Boy Who Lived. Snape looked back at her impassively and managed a polite "indeed" in response, when what he really wanted was for the repulsive woman to stop talking, especially that way about Snape's son. Still, she was in the Ministry, and it would pay for Snape to keep his temper.

Apparently McGonagall, ever the rash Gryffindor, could not resist a small form of attack when she overheard this conversation. "Well, I'm afraid Mr. Potter _is_ taking NEWT Defense Against the Dark Arts, Dolores." She smiled in victory.

Umbridge's face turned even more sour, and her smile was replaced by a heavy frown. "I suppose this was your doing, Minerva?" Merlin, her expression was really almost as frightening as that of the late Dark Lord. "It's not as if Potter has the capacity for the subject."

McGonagall pursed her lips sternly. "Mr. Potter received an Outstanding on his Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL, Dolores, all on his own. I think perhaps the one without the capacity for the subject is _you_."

Snape quickly veiled the smirk that had sprung up on his face. Oh, McGonagall's words certainly weren't wise, but they were quite satisfying.

Umbridge's face was pinker than her frilly fuchsia sweater, but she apparently could not think of a retort. Throwing McGonagall a poisonous glare, she stood up and flounced away. McGonagall was smiling.

Snape shook his head. "You really ought to be careful, Minerva."

"Somebody's got to stand up to that wretched woman," she responded dismissively. "What Slytherin sixth-years are taking Transfiguration?"

"Malfoy, Nott, Bulstrode, and Zabini."

McGonagall nodded and waited for a moment, during which Snape remained silent.

"Aren't you going to ask me what Gryffindor sixth-years will be taking NEWT Potions?" She finally asked.

"I figured you would volunteer the information soon enough."

"Insufferable little…" McGonagall muttered, and Snape smirked. "Miss Granger is one, of course, but she's not the only one…."

"When are you going to realize, Minerva, that your pathetic attempts to make me impatient enough to elicit a response have absolutely no effect upon me?"

"Fine then. I won't tell you." She crossed her arms and turned away from him.

Snape shrugged. Potter and/or Weasley must have managed to pull an Outstanding. He'd find out for sure before dinner anyway; he did not need to find out now.

A few minutes later he finished the last of his pumpkin juice, left the Great Hall, and went to his office to prepare for his first class.

~.~.~.~

The first-year Hufflepuff girl was still sobbing. Snape sighed inwardly. While it was true that he liked to bring students to tears to make sure the little brats knew to take him and his class seriously, he did not like it when a student was reduced to a puddle of sniffling salt water and snot. Merlin, it'd been a full minute since class had ended, and the little girl, brown hair falling into her face to cover up her splotchy-red eyes and cheeks, was still here, all alone in the stony and damp dungeon classroom with one of the teachers least-equipped for dealing with hysterical children.

What was one supposed to do in this situation? Sit down next to her and ask her what's wrong? Pat her on the shoulder? Give her a handkerchief? _Hug _her? Snape shuddered. He didn't think yelling would help, either. While he hadn't set off her tear glands by yelling at her, he did think his cold, frightening demeanor had helped get the girl into her current watery state.

What he needed was another female Hufflepuff. Sprout would be best, but any of the female Hufflepuff students would do, too. It was unfortunate that all the girl's peers had fled from Snape's classroom as soon as the bell rang. Why hadn't any of them stayed to take care of this girl?

Maybe that was it: the girl had arrived at school, hadn't made friends yet, and was feeling lonely and homesick, and Potions class had proved to be the last straw.

That still didn't give him a key to make her stop crying.

He cleared his throat. "Where are you supposed to be right now?"

She didn't answer apart from a few more sobs.

"What class do you have next?" Merlin, where was another Hufflepuff when you needed one?

This time she at least made some response, though it was most unhelpfully just a shrugged shoulder.

Snape sighed again and reached for her schoolbag. He quickly located her schedule and saw that her next class was Charms.

"If you don't get moving now, you'll be late for Charms class."

She started crying harder. Snape cursed inwardly; that had not been the best of phrasing.

"If you stand up and follow me, I can take you there."

Pause. Snape watched the girl hopefully, and she at last gave a small nod, still crying hard, and stood up. Once she had gathered her things with trembling fingers, he set off for the classroom door with her following.

In a few more minutes, the crying girl was safely delivered to Flitwick. Snape shook his head ruefully as he returned to his class where his second-years would be waiting. And Dumbledore thought Snape would make a good father?

~.~.~.~

A NEWT class at last! Ah, this Monday was dragging by ever so slowly. Snape's second- and fourth-years had not been too problematic, but many of them were certainly less-than-enthused to be back in the cold Potions classroom under the icy glare of everyone's least favorite Potions bat. At least the NEWT students would be taking the class by choice. Snape swept along the corridor toward his classroom, outside of which a dozen sixth-years were queued: his four Slytherins, four Ravenclaws, MacMillan, Granger, Potter, and Weasley. Potter glanced with forced nonchalance at Snape, who knew the boy expected him to be surprised to see Potter and Weasley there. Snape denied Potter the satisfaction, merely continuing to the door and leading the students inside.

He waited silently at the front of the room while the sixth-years got settled. They segregated themselves by House—Slytherins at one table, Ravenclaws at another, MacMillan gravitating toward the Gryffindors in the absence of other Hufflepuffs.

Snape paused. Generally he let students sit wherever they liked unless they persisted in being overly-sociable. But he decided it might be interesting to mix the students up.

"Nott and Weasley, switch places. Corner and Granger, switch places. Zabini and McDougal, switch places." The students complied grudgingly.

Snape surveyed the room anew and nodded in satisfaction at the three tables now mixed so that there was at least one student from each house at each table (with the exception of Hufflepuff, since MacMillan could not be split in three). "These are now your assigned seats." A number of the students looked quite dismayed.

He began strolling through the room as he launched into his opening speech. "You have each chosen to take the NEWT Potions class. There will be no tomfoolery in this classroom; I expect each of you to work quickly, efficiently, and diligently at all times." He glanced pointedly at Malfoy, Weasley, Granger, and Potter: "I will not put up with any frivolous House rivalry."

Potter stifled a scoffing noise—clearly he thought it was quite well of _Snape_ to denounce House rivalry.

"We have a lot to learn and less than two years in which to learn it. The course load will be heavy; the class work will be fast-paced and far more difficult than that of your previous years in Potions has been. If you do not think yourself capable of the increased workload, I suggest that you drop this class.

"We will be working with extremely dangerous ingredients and potions in the NEWT Potions lass, which will require your utmost concentration at all times. For instance, today we will be brewing the Draught of Living Death. While most of the common mistakes in brewing this potion will not bring about an explosion or a melted cauldron, even the subtlest of errors can make the Draught fatal if ingested." He paused and looked about at all of them. "Up until now, the vast majority of your potion-making has been merely an exercise at following directions." Here Snape could not resist resting his eyes on Potter for a moment—following directions was certainly not one of the boy's strengths. "For NEWT level, however, there is far more theory that you will be required to understand and put to use.

"Turn to page ten of _Advanced Potion-Making_. Here you can see instructions for brewing the Draught of Living Death; however, these directions do not denote the best way to accurately brew the potion. During the course of this bell you shall follow these directions _loosely_, making alterations where you see fit, and recording what changes you make and why. The changes with their explanations are due next class; I recommend that you note your changes as you make them and write up the explanations as homework. You may utilize your tablemates and anything in your books as resources. Begin."

Snape drummed his fingers on his desk as he watched the students. Over half of them looked utterly befuddled as to where to begin, while the best students immediately started slicing valerian roots.

Soon the classroom was full of vapors. Granger was progressing most quickly, with Boot, McDougal, and Greengrass also doing quite well (though Boot's success was through copying every move Granger made). Snape stalked about the classroom, examining the students' techniques, peering into the cauldrons, looking at the sheets of parchment recording the changes. Most were not making many changes—some because they did not know what sort of changes would improve the potion, some because they knew the book's directions would be reasonably close to correct.

There were no explosions or near-explosions as the class went on, but by the time the end of class was approaching, virtually all of the students had made numerous mistakes and had thoroughly ruined potions. Potter's was a strange orange color and too thick to stir; Weasley's was a thick black substance; MacMillan's was at least fully liquid but dark blue. Draco's potion was surprisingly poor—Snape had had to remind the boy that he was in Potions class earlier, as Draco had been gazing unseeingly at his textbook, a haughty smirk upon his face. When Snape had reminded him of the task, Draco had scowled and begun viciously chopping up his valerian roots. The boy's inattention to the day's assignment was affecting his brewing quite adversely—his potion ended up spewing thick dark steam that reeked of rotten eggs.

On the other hand, Draco's partner, Morag McDougal, had created a potion that ended up being fairly close to the desired, except that she had added an extra sopophorous bean to her potion in an attempt to remedy the lack of juice excreted by the book's instructions of slicing the bean, which had made her potion turn too pink. Granger had thought to try to squish more juice out of the one bean, so her potion and Boot's potion were very close to accurate, though they were having trouble getting their potions to be clear.

As the students finished, they brought up vials of their potions for Snape to grade and then cleaned up their work areas. Snape watched, with a frown, as Draco's grey eyes turned toward Potter and darkened. The same smirk Snape had seen earlier in the class was back on Draco's face, and Snape was sure it did not bode well. Whatever Draco was doing or planning, however, did not seem to have any instant effects, for there were no ugly confrontations or exclamations of surprise or pain, and at the bell the students left quickly and orderly.

Snape tried to quell the worry he felt, but failed.

~.~.~.~

**A/N: ehh I don't really like this chapter…any suggestions? **

**We're only given nine of the twelve names on the class roster for Harry's NEWT Potions class, so I took liberties in naming the other three (Mandy Brocklehurst (R), Morag McDougal (R), and Daphne Greengrass (S)).**

**Please review! = )**


	10. Decree Number TwentyEight

Chapter 10: Decree Number Twenty-Eight

~.~.~.~

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down at the breakfast table in moody silence. Harry's jaw was clenched tightly; Hermione was frowning pensively; Ron's ears were bright red.

"I can't _believe_ her," Ron finally muttered.

"Well," sighed Hermione, "to be fair, it's probably more to do with Fudge than to do with Umbridge."

"I can't believe Fudge, then."

"Look at the way Umbridge is strutting around," Harry noted with disgust. They turned toward the High Table just in time to see Umbridge sashaying to her seat. She plunked into her chair, smirking fit to burst, her toad-like head held up high in triumph as she gleefully spread strawberry jam on her toast.

That morning they had descended the stairs into the common room to find an all-too-familiar notice pinned to the bulletin board:

—by order of—  
THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Dolores Jane Umbridge is reinstated as  
High Inquisitor at Hogwarts School of  
Witchcraft and Wizardry.

_The above is in accordance with  
__Educational Decree Number 28_

Signed:  
_Cornelius Fudge  
_Minister of Magic

"What on earth do they think Dumbledore's up to?" Hermione wondered. After all, the notice had not come as a complete shock, not after all the little comments added into recent _Daily Prophet _articles. For some unidentifiable reason, Dumbledore's name was once again mud at the Ministry.

"Does Fudge think Dumbledore's after his job?" Ron asked. "You'd think he'd've realized Dumbledore doesn't want to be Minister _last_ year."

"Fudge is an idiot," Harry proclaimed. Neither friend expressed dissent. Hermione gingerly unfurled a copy of the _Daily_ _Prophet_, afraid of what it might reveal.

"Here's our answer," she stated grimly once she had read the headline.

"Wha' 'appened?" Ron questioned around his mouthful of sausage. He and Harry leaned over Hermione to read the article with her.

**Hogwarts Headmaster Consorting with Criminal Cohort?**

_The Ministry of Magic has received tips that Albus Dumbledore,  
__headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is  
__involved in the escape of Bellatrix Lestrange from Azkaban this past  
__August._

"_It makes sense, really," Defense Against the Dark Arts professor  
__Dolores Umbridge says. "Albus Dumbledore has always been after  
__the Minister's office. He would do anything to take Fudge down;  
__this is just another incidence of Dumbledore trying to spread  
__disorder and panic in an attempt to unseat the Minister."  
__Umbridge has been employed at Hogwarts since last year, when..._

Harry stopped reading, too angry to continue. He stabbed at an egg viciously. _Umbridge!_

Hermione finished reading the article and folded the newspaper, shaking her head, as Susan Bones came up behind her. The Hufflepuff thrust her Herbology textbook in front of Hermione, pointing to a random page as she asked them, "Are we going to be having D.A. meetings again? Luna Lovegood said we would, but she rather often believes in unlikely things, and I hadn't heard anything..."

"Oh—yeah!" Harry answered. "Sorry, I've been meaning to set up a meeting, but I've been so busy with Quidditch, you know?" Tryouts had been held the week before, and Harry had been utterly exhausted by the time he had compiled his team, what with sore losers and large crowds and various injuries. Ron had made it back onto the team, though likely only due to a Confundus charm sent Cormac McLaggen's way by Hermione. Harry was rather pleased with his team (Chasers Katie Bell, Ginny Weasley, and Demelza Robins, and Beaters Jimmy Peakes and Ritchie Coote), though he was a bit concerned about how Lavender Brown was acting toward Ron and how he, Harry, was getting increasingly-intense butterflies in his abdomen whenever Ginny was around. What with all this and schoolwork, the D.A. had completely slipped his mind.

Hermione nodded. "We'll probably be starting the D.A. back up within a week or so," she told Susan. "We'll let you know. Do you still have your Galleon?"

Susan smiled, nodded, and thanked them before picking up her book and returning to the Hufflepuff table, where Ernie, Justin, Hannah, and Zacharias bunched around her to hear the news.

Harry looked up toward Umbridge. She was frowning at Dumbledore, who had taken a look at the _Daily Prophet_ proffered by a stern-faced McGonagall and let out several hearty chuckles. Harry watched him for a moment before letting his eyes wander over to the Slytherin table, where he found Malfoy staring at him intently. Harry's eyes narrowed as their eyes met; Malfoy sneered and returned to his breakfast.

"What's Malfoy up to, I wonder?" Harry muttered to Ron and Hermione.

"Probably angry with you for sticking his dad in prison," offered Ron wisely.

"But I didn't put his dad in prison! That was Snape's fault!"

"He does seem angry at Snape, too," put in Hermione. "But I bet he's ecstatic about Umbridge's little promotion."

"Yeah, I bet he's missed the Inquisitorial Squad," Ron said, glowering at the Slytherins.

"She'll probably get that set back up within a day," predicted Hermione. "So when can we have a D.A. meeting? It can't be a day that Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff Quidditch teams are practicing, nor can it be when Gobstones Club is meeting..." They chattered for a bit and decided upon a meeting time the following week.

Harry shook his head ruefully. "Guess I'm not going to get much sleep this year, what with Quidditch, the D.A., NEWT homework, and dealing with Umbridge and Malfoy."

"We'll manage," Hermione told him. "We always do."

~.~.~.~

On the evening of the scheduled first D.A. meeting, the three left the Great Hall after dinner.

"Do we _have_ to go to the library?" Ron complained as they crossed the Entrance Hall. "Never mind," he added when Hermione gave him a glare, "I just wish we didn't have so much homework to do."

Harry nodded. "I can't believe how long an essay Snape's assigned us—"

"—Simon, no!" they heard someone squeal, and they turned. A little Hufflepuff girl, brown hair swinging in her face, was scrambling after her pet, a small rodent currently scurrying across the floor. She caught him, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione saw that "Simon" was a small brown rat who squirmed in the little girl's hands.

Before they could react, the girl darted a glance toward them, blushed scarlet, and fled toward the Hufflepuff common room.

They looked at each other. Hermione was frowning worriedly; Ron looked oddly blank. Harry's hand was at his wand; his jaw was clenched, and he was shaking slightly.

"I should have known. It's what he did last time, wasn't it?" Harry growled past gritted teeth, while Ron's ears turned pink.

"It's all right," Hermione soothed them. "We'll tell Dumbledore." But she bit her lip as she said it.

Harry made a mental note to tell Sirius this news as soon as he got back to the Gryffindor dormitory. He had already made use of Sirius' mirror several times that year—it was nice to be able to unload, whenever he liked, to a Sirius he could see and hear.

They walked to the library in tense silence and sat down at a table, pulling out their books, parchment, and quills. Hermione took a deep breath and seemed to force to encounter out of her mind; opening the book, she started scribbling notes. Ron opened his book but started staring out the window, still with that strange expression on his face, and Harry suddenly realized what was wrong: of course—Scabbers had, after all, been Ron's rat.

"It's all right, you know," Harry told him, quietly so Madam Pince would not yell at them. "About Wormtail. I mean, you didn't know he was an Animagus. None of us knew."

Ron looked at Harry for a moment. He nodded and exhaled rather heavily. "Thanks. I just—you know—I was _harboring_ a _Death Eater_..."

"Yeah, but you didn't know. I thought Scabbers was harmless, too."

Ron nodded again, then grimaced. "I guess I'd better start this essay, then."

Harry looked at his own piece of blank parchment. "Yeah, me too."

Snape was being true to his word: NEWT Potions was proving to be substantially more difficult than OWL Potions. Ron and Harry were suffering due to their tables being Hermione-less, and Ron was incessantly grouchy about having to sit across from Malfoy and next to Slytherin Daphne Greengrass. Harry was irritated that every time he looked at Michael Corner, whom he sat beside, he remembered how Michael Corner had gone out with Ginny the previous year. Harry was not quite sure why this bothered him—it had not bothered him last year, after all...

Slowly their essays grew longer as the minutes ticked by, but suddenly Harry started. He glanced around, trying to figure out what was wrong. Soon he spotted it: behind a bookshelf he saw someone watching them, platinum blond hair framing his face as he peered through the bookshelf. Malfoy.

Malfoy saw that Harry saw him, so he stepped out from behind the bookcase. A silver _I_ glittered on his chest—the Inquisitorial Squad was indeed up and running once more. Ron and Hermione looked up from their work. Ron and Harry scowled.

"What d'you want, Malfoy?" Ron asked aggressively.

Malfoy sneered and touched the _I_ with a finger. "Just making sure everyone's behaving themselves, Weasley."

Hermione held up her parchment. "As you can see, we're working on our Potions essays here. She hasn't made _that_ illegal, has she?"

"I didn't ask for your commentary, Mudblood," Malfoy snarled at her.

Harry and Ron were on their feet in an instant, wands pointed toward Malfoy. Madam Pince hurried over.

"Put your wands away at once!" She hissed. "This is a _library_!"

They grudgingly put their wands away, still glaring at Malfoy, who smirked and turned to leave.

"Hope you're having fun, Potter, while you still can," he remarked as he began walking away.

When Harry turned back to his friends, Hermione was reassuring Ron. "I'm fine, Ron, really. That insult doesn't hurt, at least not when it comes from Malfoy. I know what he thinks of me, and I know what I think of him. His words don't have the power to hurt me." It was true: she did not appear shaken up in the least. Ron, though, was still seething.

"Merlin!" Hermione exclaimed as she glanced at the time. "We'd better go. It's almost eight."

They packed up hurriedly and headed for the seventh floor corridor. Several people were already inside, so they stood and chatted as they waited for the rest to arrive. When the clock struck eight, Harry started the meeting.

"All right, everyone," Harry called, and the D.A. members stopped chattering and looked toward him. "Today we're going to do some review since it's been a while since we last met. We're going to start with Stunning, so if everyone would find a partner..."

Soon the Room of Requirement was filled with the sounds of their practice, and Harry moved about the room, offering advice and praise.

"Good job! It's Mandy, right?" He asked one Ravenclaw newcomer. She had overheard Terry Boot mention the D.A to Hermione on the way out of the dungeons after Potions class, and she had wanted to join. Mandy nodded and smiled as she helped her partner stand up.

Harry looked around the room. Nearly everyone who had taken part in the D.A. last year, minus last year's seventh-years, was still coming, plus Mandy Brocklehurst, with two notable absences: Cho Chang and her friend Marietta were no longer attending. Harry frowned uncomfortably as he thought of Cho. Their relationship had just sort of fallen apart, and they weren't talking to each other. Apparently she had decided she did not want to learn from him, especially since Marietta had never seemed particularly interested in the D.A.

At nine they filed out and made their ways back to their houses. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sank into chairs in the common room and pulled out their essays again. Harry sighed as he read through what he had already written. The D.A. meeting had gone well; everyone was learning new tasks almost as quickly as he could set them up. Neville, especially, was making wonderful practice, probably because Bellatrix Lestrange was on the loose. But this was precisely the problem: Harry didn't have the expertise to continue to teach the others. After all, he was struggling just as much as the rest of them to perform the nonverbal spells now required in other classes like Charms and Transfiguration. He just was not sure he was up to the task of teaching his peers Defense.

He pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and wrote a letter to Remus. He had taught Defense before—maybe he would know what Harry should do.

~.~.~.~

**A/N: About the decree number, Let It Be's timeline kind of messed with what decrees were made, so 27 and 28 never happened. I decided that 27 would remove the post of High Inquisitor following Voldy's death, and thus the next decree would be number 28.**

**To the friend with the hubby named Simon, don't worry, the rat is not named after your hubby. He's really named after the disciple named Simon and called Peter...just thought that was fitting, you know?**


	11. Manipulation

Chapter 11: Manipulation

~.~.~.~

Albus smiled as he folded a letter closed and placed it upon his desk.

"Excellent, excellent," he murmured, his crystalline eyes twinkling mischievously.

He glanced at his watch, nodded to himself, and stood up from behind his desk, smoothing the wrinkles from his robes and striding across the office to the door.

He smiled again as he descended the stars and made his way toward the Great Hall for lunch. Oh, it was perfect. Manipulative? Well, probably, but it _was_ in the subjects' best interests. Albus chuckled merrily as he entered the Great Hall. He always did like win-win situations.

Soon Severus arrived and seated himself beside Albus. The Potions master glanced warily at the headmaster, reading the wizard's cheerful mood in his relaxed, carefree manner and in the twinkle in his eyes.

Severus took a deep breath. "Why so…_happy_, headmaster?"

Albus grinned at him. "What reason have I _not_ to be happy, Severus?"

Severus started counting reasons on his fingers. "Let's see…the parents and school governors are giving you hell due to the Ministry's recent attacks against you, Umbridge is heckling everyone, and most importantly two _Death Eaters_ have escaped Azkaban and are likely planning revenge at this very moment, placing Potter in _mortal danger_ yet again…."

"Ah, but being unhappy about these unfortunate circumstances will do nobody any good, my dear boy."

Severus shook his head in disbelief. Albus ascertained that Dolores was not in the vicinity, and leaned closer to Severus.

"But as for the reasons _you_ are unhappy, you have forgotten something."

"Being forced to deal with unmotivated, dunderheaded children for hours at a time?"

"That too."

Severus was silent for a moment. "I am unsure as to what you are referring."

"Alas, you once again have not been granted the post of teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Severus was silent for another moment. A small smile pulled at the corners of Albus' mouth. Ah, what fun!

"Why are you bringing that up, headmaster?" Severus asked finally.

"Well," mused Albus, taking a bite of pork and chewing it slowly, just to aggravate Severus. He swallowed and went on, noting with satisfaction Severus' features, sharp in attentiveness. "You see, Severus, I think there might be a way for you to teach Defense this year." Black eyes stared into Albus' blue ones, trying to discover the catch, the reason for Albus' joviality.

"Unofficially, of course," Albus added. "I couldn't imagine Dolores would be too pleased." Albus took another bite, this time of potatoes. Severus was silent and watchful.

"I received a letter from Remus Lupin earlier today," Albus informed Severus, whose eyes narrowed at the mention of the werewolf.

"There is a secret student group that meets occasionally to learn Defense, given that classes with Dolores are entirely worthless. The group's leader has asked Remus for help, since he is only a student himself and is struggling with some of the material. Remus, in turn, wondered if I could think up a solution for the group."

Severus raised his eyebrows and spoke derisively. "And you thought I might wish to teach it? I hardly think that students would continue to attend if I did."

"Not directly teach them, no," Albus answered. "It seems, after all, that the members are all making remarkable progress under the tutelage of the group's founder. I would only require for you to teach their leader, so that he could relay what he learns to the rest of his group."

"I see," Severus responded flatly. He stood up and turned to leave.

"Severus?"

"I'm not going to sit here and allow you to manipulate me into teaching Potter one-on-one again, Dumbledore. It was disastrous enough the first time."

"I never said the group's leader was Harry."

Severus shot a sharp, distrustful glance at Albus.

"Come to my office this evening, Severus. We can discuss this more thoroughly then."

Severus nodded curtly and went on his way. Albus returned to his pork and potatoes, reasonably satisfied. Giving Severus a few hours to dwell upon the possibilities of teaching a student Defense—well, Albus was sure his Potions master would begin to see things Albus' way.

~.~.~.~

Albus had just completed a tedious bit of paperwork when he heard a brisk rap on his office door.

"Come in," he called, and Severus strode in, stopping a few feet away from Albus' desk and standing there stiffly.

"Who's the student?" He asked.

Albus motioned toward a chair. "Take a seat, Severus."

"Who is the student?" Severus repeated, more loudly and without moving an inch.

Albus looked at him steadily. "Take a seat, Severus."

They stared at each other. After about five long seconds, Severus' shoulders slumped, and he stomped over to the chair and sat down. Then he glared at Albus again, as if determined that despite this concession, he would not back down from his earlier decision not to allow Albus to manipulate him.

Albus leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his desk and propping his chin up with steepled fingers.

"You brought up a good point today at lunch."

Severus remained motionless.

"Bellatrix Lestrange and Peter Pettigrew are at large. They are likely hunting down your son as we speak."

Snape flinched slightly at the phrase "your son."

"And considering Harry has a rather alarming tendency to eventually meet whatever Dark wizard happens to be after him, I would think you would consider it your responsibility to make sure Harry is as prepared as he can be for that confrontation."

Severus' jaw was clenched, and he spoke jerkily. "So I assume the student you wish for me to teach is indeed Potter?"

Albus inclined his hand in confirmation, peering at Severus intently.

Severus squeezed the armrest of his chair. "I'm not going to teach Potter Defense." He spoke softly, as if trying to capture the quiet, dangerous voice he sometimes utilized to terrify his students, but not quite succeeding. Albus examined Severus over the top of his half-moon glasses. Severus was weakening, Albus could tell, but the man was persisting in being incredibly stubborn. Albus cocked his head as he considered his options. He could pull the ace—mentioning Lily—but he did not wish to if he could avoid it. Severus very much resented Albus for the few times Albus had used her name to coerce Severus to do something, and it always left Albus feeling like the most wretched person in the world. The events of last February would only increase these effects: any thought of Lily would sink Severus into a miserable pit of guilt and self-loathing. Referring to Lily would assuredly make Severus comply with Albus' wishes, but the cost would be severe, and Albus wanted to try every other option before resorting to this one.

Albus raised his eyebrows at Severus. "Now, now, my boy—you have applied to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts every year since you began teaching, and you have treated every Defense professor that has walked through these halls with utter resentment and disdain. Now, I am finally giving you the chance to teach the subject, and you are turning me down?"

This seemed to help Albus' argument: Severus fidgeted a bit in his seat. But Albus had not yet won.

"You say Harry would not want you for a father," he continued lightly. "Yet I know you would make a wonderful father—yes, Severus," he said in response to Severus' disbelieving scoff, "you _would_ make a wonderful father. I have never known anyone as _devoted_ as you."

Now Severus squirmed. Giving him compliments—or flattery, as Severus would call it—always did seem to make the wizard uncomfortable.

"By teaching Harry a subject in which he is very interested, Harry may come to respect you." He paused and then looked meaningfully at Severus. "You do want your son's respect, don't you, Severus?"

Severus glared at Albus, whose eyes were twinkling once more. After a pause Severus huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes, making Albus grin.

"Fine. You win this time."

Albus beamed, deciding not to mention that he won _every_ time. "Excellent!"

Severus stood and swept toward the door. While opening it, he paused and turned around, looking despairingly at Albus.

"Why can't you just let it be, Dumbledore?"

Albus grinned and popped a lemon drop into his mouth. "What would be the fun in that?"

~.~.~.~

Moments after Severus had left his office, Albus heard voices coming from the staircase, and soon who arrived at the threshold of the office but Harry Potter, followed by a grouchy-looking Severus.

"Ah, hello, Harry! Just the man I needed to see!"

"Oh—why?" Harry asked, momentarily thrown off from what he had been about to say.

"I'll tell you all about it once you've shared your own reason for coming to see me. Lemon drop?" Albus asked, offering him one.

"Er—no thanks. It's about Wormtail, sir."

"Oh?" Albus frowned and offered Harry a seat. Severus remained skulking by the door as Harry launched into his story.

"He's at Hogwarts. As a rat, I mean. We saw this girl running after a rat, and it was him."

Albus surveyed Harry over the top of his glasses. "Are you sure the rat was Peter?"

"Yeah, definitely. We all recognized him."

Albus selected a quill and a piece of parchment.

"Do you know the girl's name? Or house or age?"

"I don't know her name, but she's a Hufflepuff. First-year, I think. She has brown hair and looks really timid. She calls him Simon."

Albus jotted this down. "All right, Harry, we'll look into that. Thank you for alerting me."

"I'd've come earlier, but I was busy with schoolwork and—er, clubs and such."

"Ah, what a perfect transition: there is a club I wanted to talk to you about, Harry."

Harry glanced at him sharply, and seemed reassured by Albus' calm, lenient expression. Albus chuckled.

"Yes, Harry, I've found out about your Defense group."

Harry scuffed his shoes against the floor. "Er—sorry, sir, about that group, I know it's not allowed but—"

Albus held up a hand, still smiling calmly. "No, no, Harry, it is fine. True, Professor Umbridge would be quite displeased were she to hear about this, but personally I commend you and your friends for taking such initiative in your education."

Harry relaxed a bit. "Oh. All right—er, thanks."

"You are very welcome, my boy. Now, to the reason I wished to speak with you. Remus Lupin sent me a letter telling me that you wanted assistance in teaching your group, things beyond what you could teach them from a textbook, and he wondered whether I had a solution for you."

"Oh," Harry said again. "Er—do you?"

"I believe I do," Albus answered cheerfully. "I've found someone very experienced and knowledgeable in Defense Against the Dark Arts who is willing to tutor you in the areas you wish to cover in your group. You will then be able to take the techniques you learn from your tutor and apply them to teach your peers.

"Yeah, that sounds good," Harry said, smiling a bit. "Who will be teaching me?"

"I will," Severus broke in suddenly, a small smirk upon his face.

Harry jumped in his seat, apparently having forgotten that Severus was in the room. Craning around in his chair, Harry stared at Severus and then swiveled his head back toward Albus, incredulous.

"No," Harry told them.

Albus raised his eyebrows. "No? Harry, I assure you that Professor Snape is more than capable at teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"He hates me. He hates my father."

Albus watched Severus consider the allegations. "False and…I suppose true," Severus muttered under his breath, too softly for anyone other than a lip-reader to discern.

Albus gazed steadily at Harry. "Professor Snape does not hate you, Harry."

Harry barely stifled to urge to roll his eyes.

"Harry, do you want help or not? This _is_, after all, in response to _your_ request."

Harry huffed out a breath and glanced at Severus once more, who stared back at him impassively. Albus shook his head slightly to himself: these had to be two of the most stubborn people in the world. Not that Albus wasn't stubborn himself—after all, he seemed to be winning arguments against the aforementioned pair.

Yes, definitely winning, he mused, as Harry reluctantly conceded. "I—fine. Fine, I'll do it. But he doesn't get to treat me like I'm nothing."

Albus twinkled his eyes at Severus. "I'm sure he shall agree to that." Severus gave a curt nod.

Albus clapped his hands together. "Well! I think that settles that problem! Have a splendid day, Severus, Harry."

The two trudged grudgingly out of the office, and as the door closed behind them, Albus chuckled in contentment. Indeed, there were some situations that were developing in ways that displeased and worried Albus, but there were also situations that were going just fine.

~.~.~.~

**A/N: Sorry I haven't responded to you all in like two weeks. I don't have a good excuse—I've definitely had the time earlier this week, but I don't today. I'll respond to you all tomorrow, I promise. You can beat me with a metaphorical sledgehammer if I don't. **

**Please review! = )**


	12. Remedial Potions

Chapter 12: Remedial Potions

~.~.~.~

Harry tried to quell the unease in his abdomen as he descended the stairs toward Snape's office. He wasn't sure what to expect from this new round of "remedial potions." If it was anything like Occlumency had been, Harry would just have to quit. But maybe—probably not, but maybe—these lessons would be different. After all, Harry really liked Defense Against the Dark Arts, and perhaps the fact that it was his own choice to learn from Snape would make a difference in the manner in which Snape tried to teach him.

He reached Snape's office door and knocked. The door opened soundlessly and Harry saw Snape sitting at his desk, greasy black hair framing his ugly face.

"Come in," Snape ordered, and Harry entered.

Snape motioned Harry to sit down, and Harry complied, perching uneasily in the chair across the desk from Snape. Snape's eyes bore into Harry's calculatingly, and Harry glanced away, thinking of Occlumency, wondering what he had gotten himself into this time. There was a new jar filled with dead cockroaches on a shelf; Harry recalled that the old jar had been thrown at him during one Occlumency lesson. And the last time he had been in this room, he had awoken in the hospital wing three days later.

"Potter?"

Harry looked up from the cockroaches' jar with a start.

"Huh?"

Snape raised his eyebrows at the ineloquent response. "You were the one who desired assistance, Potter. What is it that you want?"

"Er—" Harry was at a loss for a moment. He was used to Snape bossing him around and insulting him, his friends, and his family at every opportunity; getting to make the decisions was a big surprise. "I—er—I just wanted to learn some stuff to teach the others..."

"Such as?" Snape asked, looking annoyed. Harry's temper started to flare. It wasn't Harry's fault that he didn't know he would be expected to control the direction of these lessons. When had Snape ever let him control anything?

"Well, we're all having a lot of trouble with nonverbal spells. Except Hermione, of course."

They were having to use nonverbal spells a lot these days, notably in Transfiguration and Charms, and nearly everyone was having difficulties.

"We'll start with nonverbal spells, then," Snape said brusquely. "Take out your wand."

Harry slid out the length of holly and phoenix feather, staring apprehensively at Snape as the man produced his own wand from the folds of his cloak.

"Careful concentration is necessary to cast a nonverbal spell, Potter. You have to focus entirely on the task you wish to perform. Generally it helps to say the spell in your mind."

Harry frowned. Some of this sounded uncomfortably reminiscent of Occlumency—all that "focus, let go of emotions, stop being a weak, pathetic dunderhead" stuff.

"Let's start with a simple charm." Snape pointed to a quill on his desk. "Levitate that, nonverbally."

Harry froze for a moment before he remembered the charm. Cursing himself for failing to remember such a basic spell, he pointed his wand at the quill and thought, _Wingardium Leviosa,_ at it while waving his wand in the proper "swish and flick" pattern.

The quill wobbled on the desk. Harry clenched his teeth.

"It takes more concentration than that, Potter," Snape said shortly, and Harry glared at him. Snape gazed impassively back. "That anger is not going to help you unless you are trying to curse _me_."

A smidgeon of anger bubbled up beyond Harry's control. "Look, it's apparent I can't do this—this _clearing my head_ nonsense! Didn't we try that last year?" He spat.

Snape exhaled slowly as Harry glowered at him.

"You are fully capable of conquering your anger, Potter."

Harry stared at him, confused. What was Snape saying? That he wasn't trying? His ire rose a bit more.

"But since you seem to be refusing to conquer that anger now, perhaps it would be more efficacious to harness it by practicing nonverbal spells on me."

He wasn't serious, was he? Harry hurriedly shut up the part of his brain that was trying to make a pun about his godfather while Snape pushed back his chair and stood up, stepping over to a relatively clear space. After some hesitation Harry followed suit, facing Snape across the stone floor.

"Go ahead, Potter," Snape urged.

Harry didn't know what to think. Was this some sort of trick? Tell Harry Potter to curse him and get him expelled when he did for "attacking a teacher?"

Well, Dumbledore probably wouldn't let that sort of thing happen, Harry decided. He guessed he should just follow orders.

Leveling his wand at Snape, he whispered, _Stupefy!_ in his mind. Snape took a single step backward as the spell reached him, not bothering to defend himself.

"More forcibly than that, Potter."

Harry bit his lip and tried again. _Stupefy!_

Better—Snape stumbled a bit, but still didn't see the need to raise his own wand.

Snape let out a short, mean laugh. "Really, Potter? Is that the best you can do?"

Harry clenched his free fist. Yes, it turned out Snape really was just doing this to humiliate Harry, after all. _STUPEFY!_

Snape raised his wand this time, accosting the spell with a flick of his wrist that sent the spell whirling around him, blowing some papers off the desk in the wind before it dissipated.

Snape smirked. "Much better, Potter."

Harry just glowered at him. These lessons were not going to prove to be very much fun.

"Why would you want them to be fun, Potter?" Snape taunted. "The point is for them to be _instructive_, is it not?"

"Stop reading my mind!" Harry snapped.

"It's not mind-reading, Potter; it's interpreting thoughts by feelings and memories."

"Whatever!" Harry snarled, quite fed up by now.

"Again, Potter. Try a different curse this time."

_Petrificus Totalus!_ Harry yelled in his mind.

Snape flicked his wand, and the curse exploded in a loud clap rather like that of Apparition.

"Good, Potter. Another."

_Cruci—_

Snape parried the curse before Harry finished, knocking Harry backward with the force of his spell. Snape stared at him and crossed the office floor, grabbing some of Harry's hair and twisting his head to face Snape.

"What was _that_, Potter?" Snape whispered dangerously.

What _was_ that? Harry didn't know—fury, pent-up aggression for all Snape's past misdeeds—something along those lines, Harry would guess. It certainly wasn't the first time Harry had had the urge to watch Snape writhing under the Cruciatus Curse, though it definitely was the first time Harry had actually raised his wand to make it happen...

Snape steered Harry over to the chair and pushed his into it. Harry didn't resist, and he stared warily at Snape as the professor took a couple of steps back and peered, black eyes narrowed, at him.

"Potter. Explain yourself."

Harry felt like there was a huge lump of something utterly devoid of moisture stuck in his esophagus. "I—I don't know. Sir. I mean, sorry, er—I was wrong to do that, I don't know what came over me—" He stopped when Snape held up a hand.

"Potter." Snape took a step toward the chair again. "You are never, under any circumstances, permitted to employ or attempt to employ the Cruciatus Curse upon another living thing." Snape placed is hands on Harry's armrests and leaned toward Harry so that his disgusting greasy hair swung forward, and Harry slumped further into the chair, hoping Snape would not get any closer. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Harry answered meekly.

"You will receive two detentions, Potter, and I will inform Dumbledore of this." Harry's face burned, and his stomach turned. What would Dumbledore think of him?

"I would inform Professor McGonagall of this as well, but luckily for you the nature of these lessons makes that impossible," Snape continued as he righted himself.

Harry did not bother to hide his relief, but it didn't end his preoccupation with what Dumbledore would think.

"Now," Snape continued as he walked around his desk, "before your ill-thought attempt to expel yourself from Hogwarts and earn a free trip to Azkaban, you did perform two excellent displays of nonverbal spells."

Harry stared at him, flummoxed.

"Yes, Potter," Snape responded to Harry's look of disbelief, "I did indeed say _excellent_. It is clear that you do _not_ lack the concentration necessary to perform nonverbal spells, although it would help if you did not need to be enraged to achieve such concentration."

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Now that we have seen you are not incapable of nonverbal spells, shall attempt a simple, non-angry charm once more?" Snape motioned toward the quill.

Harry sighed, took a deep breath, and focused on the quill. Raising his wand and moving it firmly, swish and flick, he ordered the quill: _Wingardium Leviosa_.

It rose a couple of inches into the air, trembling, before it broke free and fell back to the desk. Harry looked toward Snape, who was still standing behind his desk.

"Still not enough concentration, Potter."

~.~.~.~

As September's late summer leaves turned to October's golds and reds, Harry continued to take lessons from Snape, which, though frustrating, were steadily helping him adequately teach the D.A. It was strange—Snape seemed a bit, well, not _nicer_, but…less mean. Harry shook his head at himself—"Nicer" and "less mean" meant the same thing, after all. Snape still managed to insult Harry three or four times each lesson, though. And those two detentions had been hell. Harry muttered angrily to himself about the injustice of it all as jogged up the stairs toward the Gryffindor common room. He had just finished a lesson with Snape, during which the potions master had needled him about being arrogant and brash and foolish, and that he needed to be more careful considering there were Death Eaters on the loose who likely wanted him dead. Harry had scoffed at this. Old news, that. When did he _not_ have somebody trying to kill him?

At least, he placated himself as he took a shortcut staircase, he'd soon have an entire Snape-free day—their first Hogsmeade trip of the year was next weekend. Harry smiled a bit as he pushed aside the tapestry at the top of the staircase. Yes, taking a look through Honeydukes and Zonkos with Ron and Hermione would definitely allow him to forget about Snape.

"Ah, Harry! Fancy seeing you here!"

Harry's smile melted off his face: Dumbledore. Harry hadn't spoken to him since Dumbledore had assigned him lessons with Snape; Harry had been avoiding him since the first lesson, not wanting to see Dumbledore's eyes darken in disapproval due to Harry's attempted use of the Cruciatus.

"Er…good evening, sir," Harry said, bracing himself for the scolding.

"And how are you on this splendid October evening?"

"Fine, sir, er, I really have to get back to the common room—"

"—Oh, I won't keep you long, my boy. How are your remedial potions lessons going?"

"Er, fine, I guess," Harry said, feeling his cheeks redden.

"I understand there was an…incident…in your first lesson." Harry bit his lip and averted his eyes.

Dumbledore sighed. "Well, Harry, these things do happen." Harry looked up at him in surprise. Dumbledore wasn't angry?

"There have definitely been times that I've felt tempted to use such curses, yes indeed." Dumbledore's eyes gazed past Harry, to a past that Harry couldn't see, and Harry was taken aback—was that _pain_ in Dumbledore's eyes? "Just remember, Harry, what I believe I told you a few years ago, about choices. Do you remember?"

"Yeah. Our choices are what define us, far more than our abilities."

"That's right, Harry," Dumbledore smiled, nodding, the twinkle coming back into his eyes. "And I trust that you will be able to make the proper choices in future situations.

"Now, Harry, there's something we need to discuss, to do with next weekend's Hogsmeade trip." Harry's heart sank. Was he not going to be allowed to go?

"In light of the recent breakouts, Harry, you must understand that your life is in a very particular danger. Bellatrix Lestrange is fiercely loyal to Lord Voldemort, and she will stop at nothing to punish you, Harry, because she holds you responsible for his death as much as she holds Professor Snape responsible. Remember what she did to Neville's parents after Lord Voldemort's first fall? You can bet that what she wants to do to _you_ is far worse. In the face of such danger, Harry, I must do something to ensure your safety outside this castle. Were Voldemort still alive, I could arrange to have various Order members stationed about Hogsmeade to keep you safe, but with Voldemort gone they have returned to their normal lives. The only way I can allow you to go to Hogsmeade, therefore, is if a professor well-versed in Defense Against the Dark Arts escorts you."

Harry frowned. "Snape, you mean."

Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moon glasses. "_Professor_ Snape, Harry, and yes."

"And by 'escort' you mean…"

"Professor Snape would have you within his line of vision at all times."

Harry scowled.

"You will still be free to go anywhere you like, so long as it is legal and safe. It is just a precaution to makes sure if a fugitive decides to pounce, you have some qualified backup."

Harry gritted his teeth. Whatever Dumbledore said, he knew it wasn't going to be half as fun with Snape following his every move.

"I guess I'm not in a position to argue, am I."

"That's probably true," Dumbledore told him lightly. "Now, I'd better be off, Professor Umbridge had some sort of ridiculous complaint that she wants me to deal with…. Have a nice day, Harry!"

Harry just grimaced as Dumbledore walked away. With a sigh he turned toward the Gryffindor common room once more. Ron and Hermione had to hear this.

~.~.~.~

"He's totally going to ruin the trip," Harry lamented, while Ron nodded in agreement.

"Look, Harry, just give him a chance!" Hermione persisted. She had been defending Snape for the entire discussion.

The fire was burning low in the Gryffindor fireplace, and Hermione was curled up in an armchair, proofreading their Transfiguration essays and listening with Ron as Harry ranted about how much of a git Snape was.

"Why?" He asked her, dumbfounded. "Why on earth should I give _Snape_, of all people, 'a chance?'"

"Well…" Hermione hesitated before rushing on: "Professor Snape probably won't be happy that I'm telling you this, but...well, I think you should know."

Harry and Ron stared at each other, bewildered.

"Do you remember," she continued carefully, "that argument we had last year concerning Occlumency lessons, right after you had that vision with Voldemort and Professor Snape?"

"Er..." Harry replied, racking his brains but failing to find that particular incident, "were you saying I had to take Occlumency lessons because Snape was only trying to help me or something?"

"Yes. And you asked what made him trustworthy, and I gave several reasons, but was unable to actually tell you about one of them?"

"Er..." Harry shot another glance at Ron. "Yes?"

Hermione sighed. "Well, I did. But I think I can tell you about the other reason now. I couldn't before because Voldemort might have found out through you if I had, and that might have messed up Professor Snape's plan."

"So, are you going to tell us, or not? Ron asked, his impatience getting the better of him.

"Yes, Ron. I will. You're going to have to be _patient_, however, because it's going to take a while to explain."

Ron's face scrunched in dismay. "Oh, no—here we go," he muttered to Harry. Harry couldn't agree more.

"Well, the thing with Unbreakable Vows is that the person who dictates the terms of the Vow defines the operational definitions of those terms."

The boys stared at her blankly, and she sighed.

"Like, say Snape had two sons—no, I don't think he does—" she added hurriedly when she saw her friends' faces "—but hypothetically speaking, if he had two sons, then _he_ would choose to whom the phrase 'my son' referred."

"And...what does that have to do with whether Snape can be trusted?" Harry questioned.

"Since Snape chose the operational definitions of the terms, the terms "my son" and "Perry" did not have to relate to Voldemort's own understanding of what those terms entailed."

"I'm not following," complained Ron.

"What I mean is, Snape's 'son' did not necessarily have to be Snape's biological son. He would only have to be a boy that Snape cares enough about to allow Snape to connect, in his own mind, that boy to the phrase 'my son.' Likewise, 'Perry' does not have to be the son's real name—it could be a pseudonym that Snape has connected to the boy."

"All right, but what does this have to do with whether we can trust Snape, or even to do with whether Snape is certain to completely ruin our Hogsmeade trip?"

"Harry," Hermione sighed despairingly—she seemed to think the connection was obvious, though her friends were quite clearly very lost. "When Voldemort tried to hurt you, he ended up hurting Snape's 'son.' 'Perry' rhymes with 'Harry,' because it's a pseudonym for _you_. Despite how he's treated you in the past, Professor Snape quite evidently cares enough about you for him to be able to consider you his own son. The Vow wouldn't have worked if he didn't actually care about you. That's how I know he's definitely not just going to try to humiliate you all the time."

Harry and Ron were rendered speechless. After five seconds of stunned silence, the boys burst into laughter.

"Snape—consider—_me_—his—_son_!" Harry gasped between guffaws.

"Good one, Hermione," Ron added, snickering.

"I'm not _joking_, Ronald!" Ron and Harry ignored her and kept chuckling wildly. She frowned at them. "All right, then. What's _your_ explanation as to why hurting you caused Voldemort to break his Vow?"

Harry took a few deep breaths to stop laughing. "I don't know," he replied, shrugging. "Dumbledore said it wasn't any of my business. And I daresay it _would_ be my business if Snape thought of me as his own kid."

"Is that really what Dumbledore said? That it wasn't 'your business?'"

"Er...It was something to that effect."

"Well, I'm almost completely certain that I'm right. How would Voldemort have harmed Professor Snape's 'son' by attacking you if his 'son' were anyone other than you?"

Harry tried to invent an explanation. "Er...the kid could have been...er...connected to...er—"

"—Look, admit that it doesn't make sense any other way!" Hermione pressed.

"No, what _doesn't_ make sense," Harry retorted, "is how you could possibly think Snape cares about _me_ when all he ever does is sneer at me, insult me or Dad or Sirius, take points, give detentions, and generally make my life completely miserable!" He slammed his copy of _Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six_ shut and leapt up from the couch, stomping off toward the dormitory.

He'd had enough of Snape for one day. He'd had enough of Snape for a lifetime.

~.~.~.~

**A/N: Oh Harry. So melodramatic. I feel like this chapter's a bit choppy in parts; what do you think?**


	13. Espionage and Expectations

Chapter 13: Espionage and Expectations

~.~.~.~

Snape grumbled to himself as he gazed out over the students chattering excitedly as they ate breakfast. Their voices were louder than usual, the sound bouncing off the walls of the Great Hall, and Snape felt a headache coming on. It was Saturday, the first Hogsmeade trip of the year.

He sighed, already weary, as he watched Potter and his friends. They, too, didn't appear very happy about this arrangement.

How had Dumbledore convinced Snape to do this, anyway? He wasn't sure. Somehow a conversation involving Potter's progress in his Defense lessons had morphed into Snape agreeing to escort the boy to Hogsmeade. If it was so dangerous that Potter needed an escort, why weren't they just banning him from going? Oh, that's right—last time they did that, he used an Invisibility Cloak and a magical map to go to Hogsmeade anyway.

So here Snape was, preparing himself to waste a perfectly good Saturday by stalking a teenager.

Dumbledore was quite possibly the most aggravating person on the planet.

Though, he mused, Potter could certainly give Dumbledore a run for his Galleons.

When the three Gryffindors got up to leave, Snape pushed back his chair and strode out to the Entrance Hall, where a crowd of students was gathering near the great oaken doors. Potter searched about, found Snape, and glowered at him. Snape made his way toward them while Granger muttered fiercely to her friends:

"It's not going to be that bad. He's not going to be breathing down our necks or anything—he just has to keep you in sight."

Potter and Weasley grimaced anyway.

Snape sneered as he reached them. "I can't say I'm too pleased about wasting my day babysitting you, either, Potter, Weasley," he told them. "So let us make this as painless as possible: you will not try playing games of hide-and-seek with me; you will not rush off anywhere at breakneck speed. I, in turn, will let you do whatever you wish to do and leave you more or less alone, so long as it is safe, legal, and keeps you in my line of vision. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," the boys answered sullenly.

"Good." Snape walked a few paces away, knowing they would not want him to continue standing beside them. He tapped his foot impatiently as Filch began checking students' permission slips and students slowly began filing out into the windy sleet.

~.~.~.~

"Really, Ron?" Granger was asking in disgusted exasperation.

"What?" He was holding a bag of Dungbombs and trying to find the end of the queue at Zonko's.

"Aren't those a little, well, juvenile?"

Of course they're juvenile; everything at Zonko's is juvenile, thought Snape morosely from his spot a few feet away. Students kept giving him strange looks: what was the evil Potions bat doing at the joke shop? It was difficult to be inconspicuous when he was he only adult there other than the shopkeepers and when he had to stick close to Potter to keep sight of him amidst the crowd.

Weasley, meanwhile, glanced at Granger's frowning face and then down at the Dungbombs in his hands. "But they're fun," he told her.

"Maybe they were three years ago, and sure, you can use them to check if a door has had an Imperturbable Charm placed on it, but I mean, how many doors are you expecting to have to check for Imperturbable Charms?"

"Yeah, Ron," Potter cut in, grinning playfully, "why don't you buy a nice _book_ instead?"

Granger rolled her eyes at Potter. "There are plenty of other things just as useful as books that you'd actually be interested in buying, Ron."

Weasley gasped. "There are things as useful as books?" He asked, opening his eyes wide and dropping open his jaw.

Granger glared at them, but got distracted by the next student who walked through the door.

"Watch out," she warned the others, and they turned.

"Malfoy," Potter hissed, and Snape had to bite back a smirk at his melodramatic tone. Snape noticed Weasley discreetly replacing the Dungbombs on the shelf while the other two were distracted.

"We should get out of here before he decides to stir up trouble," Granger suggested.

"Yeah, definitely," Weasley agreed. "Let's go." He led the way, weaving through the crowd. Potter met Snape's eyes for a moment before following.

"Weren't you going to buy those Dungbombs?" Granger asked as they neared the doorway. Draco Malfoy had since been lost in the crowd.

Snape watched Weasley's ears pinken. "Er, it wasn't important."

They stepped out into the bitter wind, crossing their arms over their chests and hunching over against the cold. Snape trailed after them as they trudged up High Street, tucking his hands into the folds of his cloak to keep them from freezing. How he wished he were back in the castle, doing something worthwhile like covering essays in red ink.

The three ducked into Honeydukes; Snape slipped in behind them, grateful to be out of the biting wind.

Honeydukes was not quite so repulsive as Zonko's, though the overly-sweet smell that filled the air was not helping Snape's headache. This shop, too, was crammed with Hogwarts students, so Snape followed in Potter's, Weasley's, and Granger's wake as they examined the new Deluxe Sugar Quills (wouldn't Granger, of all people, realize how terrible such things were for their teeth?) and the latest flavors of Droobles Best Blowing Gum. Students kept staring at Snape as he passed, and he soon found that a good glare in return was perfectly adequate in sending them scurrying away.

But as the trio was debating amongst themselves over how many Chocolate Frogs they should buy, Snape suddenly felt a prickling of unease on the back of his neck. He cast his eyes about, trying to spot the danger.

Aha. It appeared that Snape was not the only one following Potter around today: Draco Malfoy's eyes were glued upon the three from his vantage point behind a shelf of toffees. Snape moved closer to the boy to investigate.

Draco did not notice Snape: he was intent on examining the three Gryffindors; most specifically, it appeared to Snape, he was watching Potter, who was now holding up a package of Fizzing Whizbees thoughtfully.

After a bit, Draco huffed and glanced about the shop, seemingly frustrated b the trio's behavior. He jumped slightly when he saw Snape standing a few feet away from him.

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy. Enjoying your day in Hogsmeade so far?"

Draco scowled. "What're you doing here? Come to spy on me or something?"

Snape raised an eyebrow at the boy's impertinence. "No, Draco. _Should_ I be spying on you?"

The sixth-year flushed slightly and backed up a step. "Of course not. Leave me alone." He turned around sharply and left the shop, leaving Snape staring after him, frowning.

Snape shook his head and turned back to Potter. He and his friends were now paying for their sweets, Weasley rummaging deep into his pockets to find an elusive Knut. Soon they too left the shop, huddling near each other to try to fend off the weather's worsening wind.

Their next stop was the Three Broomsticks, and all four smiled as they were enveloped by the warm atmosphere inside the pub, rubbing their hands together in an attempt to get the feeling back into their fingers. The students weaved through the crowd, settling down at an empty table. Granger left to get them butterbeers, and Snape leaned against a wall, listening as the boys' conversation turned to Quidditch and the upcoming match between Gryffindor and Slytherin which was to take place in less than a month.

"Thanks, Hermione," Weasley said happily upon her return, taking a foamy butterbeer from her. She smiled and sat down, sliding Potter's butterbeer across the table to him. Then,s he turned toward Snape.

"Professor, aren't you going to get something to drink?"

Weasley blew foam all over the table when he inhaled some of it and started coughing, and Potter stared at Granger as if she were mad.

Snape stood up from the wall. "No, Miss Granger, I am not thirsty."

There was an awkward silence, so Snape decided to see what they knew about Draco's behavior.

"For how long has Draco Malfoy been spying upon you?"

"Huh? Er—" Potter began. "I mean, a few weeks after school started we caught him watching us in the library, but I hadn't noticed anything else..."

Snape barely abstained from rolling his eyes. "Potter, you have got to be more observant!"

Potter put his butterbeer down. "Well, I'm sorry if I find it a bit difficult to meet your lofty expectations!" He snapped.

"Harry, he's not—" began Granger, but Potter cut her off.

"No, Hermione, stop doing that. He treats me like a dead horned toad that he wants to disembowel. He always has."

Granger sighed, looking mutinous, while Weasley glanced from Potter to Granger to Snape and back again.

"Harry—"

"I said, stop it! I just—" He huffed out his breath and glanced around at all of them.

Just listen—"

"_No_." He got up abruptly and walked away. Granger sighed again and looked toward Weasley, who glanced uncertainly back. Snape rolled his eyes and started after the blasted brat.

Potter was slogging down High Street, head down, arms wrapped around himself. He heard Snape's footsteps in the slush and glanced back, quickening his pace. Snape lengthened his stride in response as Potter continued down the street, back past Honeydukes and Zonko's, past Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, down to the very end of the street.

He pushed open a shop door at the very end, and Snape followed him in, looking about Dervish & Banges. A complicated-looking magical camera was perched on a table in the middle next to a basket full of Remembralls. Crystal balls filled a shelf on a wall; a few lunascopes and Sneakoscopes adorned another shelf. Some telescopes were set up near the back of the shop, were Potter was standing, his back to Snape.

"May I help you, sirs?"

The shopkeeper was standing behind the counter, peering at them inquisitively.

"No, thank you,' Snape told the man gruffly. He approached Potter. Exhaling heavily, he wondered what to say.

"Potter?"

The boy didn't turn around.

"Potter." Snape walked around to Potter's side, staring at Potter's profile. The teen did not move, but continued to gaze blankly at a particularly ornate telescope.

Snape folded his arms across his chest. Why was Potter acting like such a child? He was sixteen years old! Merlin, Dumbledore was utterly insane to think Snape would be a good father. He assuredly could not handle this brat, at least.

Shortly after this entirely-silent inner tirade, Potter finally moved. Swiveling to face Snape, he started yelling, and Snape had to resist the temptation to glance back at the shopkeeper to see his reaction.

"Just stop it! Stop—_standing there!_ Why are you even here? You don't—you've _never_—given a damn about me, unless it's just to complain about how much you hate me and my dad and Sirius—what did I ever do to you? Why do you have to make my life so goddamn _miserable_? It isn't FAIR!"

"_Life_ isn't fair, Potter," Snape told him. then he cursed himself for that response.

Potter scoffed. "_Obviously_."

Snape hesitated. "Look, Potter. I—" he paused, uncertain how to continue. "I admit I had...expectations—profoundly _negative_ expectations—of what sort of person you would be. And whenever you fulfilled those expectations, I remembered it, while whenever you defied those expectations, I ignored it. And, er, I didn't...realize...that you weren't...who I thought you were, until last year. I—" Snape looked straight into Potter's brilliantly-green eyes. "I've made some substantial errors in the way I've treated you, Potter, and...my apology is long overdue."

Potter stared at him.

"You do have some problems in the realm of disrespectfulness, though," Snape added hastily.

Potter did not say anything. He seemed too shocked to find any words.

"You might as well get back to Hogwarts; the weather's only getting worse."

"Right," Potter said jerkily. They glanced at each other warily as they exited the store, the storekeeper mysteriously missing.

Stepping back into the sleet, they began the trek back up High Street, walking quickly due to both the weather and the uncomfortable silence.

~.~.~.~

**A/N: I'm really behind again; sorry for not responding to anyone's reviews from chapter 12—I promise to respond on Friday, so bring your metaphorical sledgehammers again in case I break that promise.**

**There's a block of time in the day I usually use to write, and in the past two weeks I've only been able to use that block of time twice, so I completed this chapter in a rush. If you spot any mistakes, be they grammar errors or typos or logical inconsistencies or whatever, tell me so I can fix them. Thanks!**

**I was so tired when I wrote this, at least two AVPM references nudged their way into the chapter. If you know what I'm talking about, be a Hufflepuff and FIND them! = )**

**Please review!**


	14. You're Next

**WARNING: Rather grisly death ahead.**

Chapter 14: "You're Next"

~.~.~.~

"Albus?" Nymphadora called from the entrance to Knockturn Alley.

He strode over to her and sighed. "Where is he, Dora?"

"This way." She sounded as if she had a head cold, and her hair was a dreary brown. She offered him a flask of thick, beige liquid and a set of Auror's robes. Placing a Disillusionment Charm on himself, Albus drank the Polyjuice potion and changed into the Auror robes. He lifted the charm, now a replica of an off-duty Auror, Savage. The Ministry, after all, would hardly want Albus Dumbledore poking around in this investigation, given the ridiculous rumors of his involvement in Bellatrix Lestrange's escape.

They traversed the dark, mangy streets of Knockturn Alley, converging upon a group of wizards dressed in more Auror robes.

Kingsley, crouching over a dark form on the filth-covered cobblestones, looked up at their approach.

"Albus, over here," he called quietly.

Albus hurried over, gasping as the corpse on the ground came into view.

Dawlish wandered over as Albus stared.

"Sir? What are we going to tell the reporters when they arrive?"

Kingsley spoke, his voice grave. "That a wizard has been found, murdered, in Knockturn Alley, and that we are not yet releasing his name."

"That's it?" Dawlish asked incredulously. "But we know both his identity and the killer's!"

"There's family to be notified first," Kingsley told Dawlish, glancing at Albus.

"I thought he had no relatives? I mean, besides cousins he hated."

Albus grimaced sadly. "You thought incorrectly. He was Harry Potter's godfather."

"Oh. Right. I forgot, Savage."

"I have to tell Remus, too," Nymphadora muttered hoarsely.

Albus bent down and smoothed back a blood-soaked lock of hair from Sirius' face. Another Auror, Proudfoot, who was only a year or two older than Nymphadora, suddenly could not stomach it and ran to vomit.

It really was quite a disturbing scene, thought Albus; he could not blame Proudfoot for his nausea. Sirius' face was covered in sticky, congealing blood that had dripped down the sides of his face from the numerous gashes. His eyes had been left untouched, perhaps to ensure that he would be recognizable, but the rest of his face was covered in letters sliced into his skin, which read:

YOU'RE  
NEXT,  
HARRY  
POTTER

"What's the cause of death?" Albus enquired.

"We're not sure," grunted Rufus Scrimgeour, who had been speaking to the raggedy old witch who had discovered the body and had now returned to where "Savage," Kingsley, and Nymphadora were gathered. "We can tell she used the Cruciatus for at least enough time to cause permanent damage, but we do not yet know if she killed him that way or just tortured him for a while before finishing him off with the Killing Curse."

Scrimgeour looked around, and then fixed his eyes on Albus.

"What are you doing here, anyway, Savage?"

Albus shrugged. "Heard about it and couldn't keep myself away, chief."

"Do we know for sure that it was Bellatrix Lestrange who did it? Couldn't it have been Peter Pettigrew?" Nymphadora asked.

"No, it's not his style; he's not the torturing type," Albus responded. Scrimgeour peered at him curiously.

"This has Bellatrix Lestrange written all over it," Kingsley added.

Nymphadora let out a sardonic laugh. "Literally."

Albus gazed down at Sirius' body one last time. His limbs were contorted at uncomfortable angles and he had a pained expression upon his face. They hadn't closed his eyes yet; they stared up blankly, devoid of their usual life and sparkle.

"Well," he sighed, "we should probably go check his home, see if Bellatrix has been there."

"_You_ shouldn't, Savage," Scrimgeour said gruffly. "You've seen the interesting bit; now leave the rest to those that are assigned to this investigation."

"Yes, sir."

"Shacklebolt, Tonks, you've been to the Black home before, correct?" Scrimgeour continued as Albus began to amble away. They nodded.

"Go see what you can find there."

~.~.~.~

Two minutes later, Albus, Kingsley, and Nymphadora had all arrived at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place via Apparition.

"Is it even necessary to do this, Albus?" Nymphadora asked. "I mean, you're the one who's the Secret Keeper, aren't you? She can't get in unless you've told her."

"Unfortunately, it's not quite that simple. The house may have passed into Bellatrix' possession, as she is the eldest remaining Black, and such ownership could have dissolved the Fidelius Charm."

"I see," frowned Nymphadora.

Without further ado, Kingsley stepped up to the door of Number Twelve and turned the knob. Wands held aloft, they peered down the dark, dusty hallway.

"_Homenum revelio_," Nymphadora whispered. There was no answer, and the three relaxed slightly.

"We still ought to be careful," Kingsley warned, unnecessarily, as Albus and Nymphadora were already well aware of it. "She could have left a trap."

They moved through the house, looking for anything out of place.

They found Buckbeak in a bedroom, who seemed glad to see them, clicking his beak as if asking for food.

"We'll let Hagrid keep him," Albus mused.

Later, after Albus had resumed his usual appearance, they found Sirius' will during a thorough search of his room; Kingsley took it to deliver to the Ministry.

"Where's Kreacher?" Nymphadora asked nervously, as they had yet to discover the crabby old house-elf.

Albus frowned. Yes, it was strange that the house-elf had not shown himself.

"Doesn't he have a den in a cupboard or something?"

They located Kreacher's den and opened the door. It was cluttered with junk that Kreacher had rescued during the Order's cleanup, and Albus looked about curiously. A photo of the Blacks was perched near Kreacher's nest of a blanket. A glittering of gold and green caught Albus' eye, and he reached out and curled his fingers around a heavy golden locket decorated with an ornate "S."

Nymphadora frowned at it. "I remember that. It was from that room with the nasty grandfather clock: we all tried to open it, but we couldn't."

Albus gently tried to pry it open himself, and it swung open easily, its insides devoid of anything.

"How did you do that?" Nymphadora demanded.

Albus replaced the locket among Kreacher's other treasures. "Lord Voldemort has died since you last tried to open it. The...enchantment...upon this locket has thus been broken."

"That locket had belonged to Voldemort?" Kingsley questioned.

"I daresay he considered it that way."

They closed the door and continued investigating the house.

~.~.~.~

The rest of their search yielded nothing out of the ordinary, and soon they stood at the door. Kingsley stepped out and Disapparated for the Ministry; Nymphadora trudged out and vanished, off to find Remus; Albus placed a Disillusionment Charm upon himself and Buckbeak and led the beast outside, mounting him and preparing for flight. Apparition was not a good idea with as unpredictable and dangerous an animal as a hippogriff.

It took several hours, but soon Albus and Buckbeak arrived outside Hogwarts' gates. With a sigh he raised his wand and admitted them, urging the hippogriff into a trot as they approached Hagrid's hut.

"Buckbeak?" Hagrid asked in disbelief when he saw them.

"Yes, Hagrid, Buckbeak will be staying with you for a while," Albus told him as he dismounted. "I'll explain more fully later." Albus knew Hagrid was not the best keeper of secrets, and thought it would be best not to tell him about what happened to Sirius until it was common knowledge. "I would advise that we call him by a different name, just to be on the safe side...perhaps Witherwings?"

"All right, Dumbledore," Hagrid responded, barely paying attention, as he was too busy stroking the hippogriff's neck.

"I'll leave you two to it, then," Albus said, smiling slightly at Hagrid's delight. But as he turned his steps toward the castle, the smile faded off his face. Should he have been able to protect Sirius—was this death, too, Albus' fault? And how could he tell Harry this news? Hadn't the boy been through enough already?

As he crossed the Entrance Hall, Minerva called him. "Albus, there's an Auror waiting to talk to you. He's in your office."

"Ah, yes. Thank you, Minerva."

"Where have you been all day, anyway?" She enquired.

Albus sighed. "Dealing with some unpleasant business, to say the least. In fact, I'm going to need to speak with you later this evening, at which point I will be able to explain more fully the newest situation. I'll call you up when I need you."

She nodded, frowning in concern, and Albus turned from her and continued on his way to his office. When he opened his door, he found Proudfoot staring about at all the portraits, who were pretending to be asleep.

"Good evening," Albus greeted, and Proudfoot jumped and turned around.

"Oh! Professor Dumbledore, there you are. Er—we've got some bad news for one of your students...Harry Potter to be exact, you see, his godfather is dead, er, murdered in fact..."

Albus sank wearily into his chair while Proudfoot struggled to avoid turning green.

"Thank you for alerting me, Proudfoot; we will inform Harry without delay." He sighed. "Bellatrix Lestrange, I presume?"

"That's what we think at the moment, sir."

"Is there anybody taking care of funeral arrangements, yet?"

"I don't think so."

Albus placed his chin in his hands. "Sirius' cousin Andromeda Tonks might be able to put that together; if not then I'd be glad to help arrange things. Will Harry need a new guardian, as he is still sixteen?"

"Er—I would suppose so, but I've not been given any information..."

"Well, he can definitely take care of him throughout the school year, and I know the Weasleys would be glad to take him in. As for a legal guardian, I may be able to find him one." He was thinking of Severus, but he knew the potions master would be quite reluctant.

"I trust that Harry will be informed for the reading of Sirius' will?"

"Of course." Proudfoot stood there for a second before taking a deep breath. "Well. That about covers it. You teachers will be telling Harry Potter, right?"

Albus nodded.

"All right, then, I'd better be going..."

"Oh, and Proudfoot?" Albus called as the Auror started for the door. Proudfoot turned.

"I'm guessing this is the first time you've seen an actual corpse?" The man nodded, shamefaced.

"No need to be ashamed," Albus told him gently, "it's a difficult thing to see. Especially Bellatrix Lestrange's victims—I remember, back at the height of Lord Voldemort's power—" Proudfoot flinched at the name while Albus winced at some of his memories. Albus sighed again. "Anyway, I find it helps to read a book or magazine or do some paperwork. Something that will keep your mind busy until you're a little more able to deal with what happened. It's been a long day."

Proudfoot bit his lip. "Thank you, Professor Dumbledore."

"Any time, Proudfoot."

The Auror left, and Albus rubbed at the bridge of his crooked nose. Then he collected himself and threw a pellet of Floo powder into the fire.

"Severus?"

Severus materialized out of the flames a few moments later, stopping short when he saw the expression upon Albus' face. Immediately tense, Severus stared at him.

"What happened, Dumbledore?"

"Sirius Black was found in Knockturn Alley this morning, dead."

Albus was surprised and as pleased as he could be in the given circumstances to note that Severus glanced sharply at the office door, concern softening his face, before he schooled his expression into impassiveness.

"Does Potter know yet?" Severus asked flatly.

"No, not yet; I wanted to discuss a few things with you, first."

Severus swept over to the chair opposite Albus' and sat down without a further word.

"How are Harry's Defense lessons going?"

"Not too terribly. He's making progress. It's much better than those Occlumency lessons were."

Albus nodded. "Good. Now, Severus—"

The younger wizard let out a dramatic sigh. Albus stopped and peered at him.

"Sounds like you're about to ask me for another one of your favors," Severus muttered in explanation.

"Ah. Alas, I suppose that's true; however, I would view it not as a favor to me, but as a favor to Harry."

Severus grumbled something incomprehensible.

"You see, Severus, with Sirius gone, Harry no longer has a godparent to look after him. I do not wish to send him back to the Dursleys—they have made it quite clear that he is not wanted there, and so since Petunia's blood only protected him against Lord Voldemort, the benefits are far less than the cost. The Weasley family would likely be ecstatic to take him in, but due to their financial difficulties the Ministry would be unlikely to approve them as Harry's legal guardians—"

"—No." Severus snapped, seeing where Albus was headed.

"Severus, you wouldn't have to do anything; I'm sure the Weasleys would be fine with Harry staying at the Burrow all summer—"

"—But why would the Ministry allow an ex-Death Eater known to hate Potter to become Potter's legal guardian, especially on the recommendation of someone thought to somehow be in league with the fugitive I'm guessing is Black's killer?"

"Severus—"

"They wouldn't. Not unless they knew that I am Potter's father. Dumbledore, I have already told you once, quite explicitly, that I will _not_ allow Potter to be informed of his...unfortunate ancestry."

"Severus, Harry does not have an 'unfortunate ancestry.'"

Severus raised his eyebrows. "I'd like to see you tell _him_ that, if he were to find out."

"How long do you intend to keep this from him, Severus? You cannot withhold this information for the rest of his life."

Severus paused for a moment. "Yes, I can, and I will."

"Severus—" Albus entreated again.

"_No,_ Dumbledore! How do you expect—how would it help—_this conversation is over_!" Severus stood abruptly and marched to the office door, ignoring Albus as the headmaster tried to reason with him.

The door slammed shut behind Severus, and one of the portraits let out a disgusted huff. "_Really!_"

Albus sighed. Well, it was no use crying over spilled potion. Besides, there was still time yet to change Severus' mind. He grabbed another pellet of Floo powder.

"Minerva? Might I see you now?"

~.~.~.~

Minerva held her hand up to her mouth as Albus finished summarizing the tragedy. "That's terrible," she breathed. "Sirius Black, dead, why, I just—keep seeing him as a student, so full of life—and Harry Potter! The poor boy...hasn't he been through enough?"

"My sentiments exactly, my dear Minerva, but I think we both know all too well that the world does not tend toward fairness."

"And I suppose it's up to us to inform Mr. Potter of Black's death?"

Albus nodded.

"The Gryffindor Quidditch team has the pitch this evening, so that's where Potter will be. Should I go fetch him now?"

"If it's no trouble."

"Not at all; I think the exercise and the outside air would do me good right now." Her voice cracked slightly and she stood up and started for the door.

~.~.~.~

"Have a seat, Mr. Potter," Minerva told Harry when they arrived back at Albus' office. He complied, glancing back and forth between Albus and Minerva, made wary by the gravity of their manner.

"Harry..." Albus began. "...There's no good way to tell you this. It's about Sirius."

"What—what's wrong? What happened? Is he all right?" Harry's fingers tightened around the armrests of his chair.

Albus shook his head. "No, he's not all right."

Harry swallowed. "Is he is St. Mungo's?" His voice took on an almost pleading tone.

Albus sighed. "No, Harry." His own face crumpled as he watched Harry's face fall. "He was found earlier today in Knockturn Alley. He's—he's dead, Harry."

Harry's gaze fixed onto the legs of Dumbledore's desk. "How did it happen? How did they do it?"

Albus paused, trying to decide how much to tell Harry. "It is currently unclear whether he was killed with the Cruciatus Curse or with the Killing Curse, and we do not know how he got into such a situation. There are multiple Aurors, including Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks, who are investigating his murder."

Harry would not look at him.

"Er—when's the—the funeral and stuff?"

"That's yet to be determined. His will shall be read probably in the upcoming week; the funeral may actually take longer because his body may be needed as part of the investigation. We will let you know as soon as we know anything."

Harry sat silently for a few moments, trying to process the knowledge that Sirius was dead. Suddenly he glanced up at Albus, worry in his green eyes.

"So—so who's taking care of me now? Am I—am I going back to the Dursleys, now?"

Albus sighed once more. "It's yet to be determined who your new legal guardian will be, but I'll do everything I can to make sure you don't have to go back to the Dursleys."

Harry did not look convinced. His eyes wandered away from Albus' again, and Albus saw him mouth Sirius' name.

"Harry, if you need anything, know you can come to me or to Professor McGonagall and we'll do all we can to help you."

"Yeah. Er—thanks," Harry murmured quietly.

"Shall I escort you back to Gryffindor tower?" Minerva asked him.

Harry got up slowly. "Yeah, I—I guess." He followed Minerva out of the office, leaving Albus staring after them, his chest tight with Harry's pain.

~.~.~.~

**A/N: I've no idea what possessed me to randomly develop Proudfoot's character, but there you go.**

**Please review! Positive, negative, whatever it happens to be...I love your feedback!**


	15. Not Alone

**A/N: Apologies for the lateness—I was out of town and couldn't get to a computer until today.**

**There is a Potter Puppet Pals reference in here, so know that about half of that piece of dialogue belongs to Neil Cicierega and company, not to me. And then my chapter title isn't exactly original...thanks, Starkid Productions! = )**

Chapter 15: Not Alone

~.~.~.~

Pain was throbbing through Snape's skull, so that the dull, continuous ache was accented by sharp jabs of misery. He rubbed at his temple with one hand as he sluggishly took his seat in the Great Hall, but it did no good. Glancing about the room at the Halloween feast, he saw that the High Inquisitor had imposed an air of somberness to the usually party-like feast: the decorations were few and not so ostentatious, and there were far less cavity-producing hyperactivity-pills with which the students could gorge themselves.

Dumbledore gently laid a hand on Snape's shoulder.

"How are you, Severus?" He asked quietly.

Snape shrugged the shoulder wearily. The question did not really require an answer: Snape knew that Dumbledore understood perfectly well how Snape was feeling. Dumbledore was the only person who did. If students were to glance up at the High Table and view the potions master, they would see the sallow-faced man scowling and wearing a rather pained expression, and they would correctly surmise that Snape hated Halloween; however, they would likely assume it was the frivolity and jollity of the holiday that he hated.

And true, Snape wasn't a big fan of frivolity and jollity, but that was not why he hated Halloween.

_Lily_.

All day long that four-letter word would flash through his brain, clenching his heart in agony and pulling the air out of his lungs.

Lily. That it was her death day was enough to have always placed Snape in a melancholy and grouchy mood on Halloween, but since last February the idea of Halloween had become ten times worse.

Snape shut his eyes. He didn't want to think about it. On other days he was able to distract himself, focus on classes and dunderheaded children and whatever story-book conflict was happening under his large nose, but on Halloween it was clear that he would be able to think of nothing else but Lily and what he had done to her.

Dumbledore sighed sadly and went back to his dinner to avoid attracting Umbridge's attention, and Snape stared morosely at the food for a moment before reluctantly spooning some mashed potatoes onto his plate and forcing them past the lump in his throat. Gradually his eyes wandered over the rows of students, most of whom were perfectly merry even without the customary Halloween decorations.

Potter wasn't. He had understandably been quite blue in the past days since finding out about Black's death. Weasley and Granger had been sitting close to him, letting him alone when he seemed to need solitude, but always ready to offer companionship otherwise. Now, his friends were sitting on wither side of him at the Gryffindor table while Potter picked at his food miserably. Snape narrowed his eyes. Potter hadn't been looking _this_ miserable...just unhappy...unlike the lost or abandoned puppy Snape was seeing now—Merlin, did he really just compare Potter to a puppy? Snape shook his head briskly.

Potter, meanwhile, appeared to be about to leave. As he pushed his plate away and gathered his bag, Granger leaned toward him and asked him something. Potter shook his head and gave a pretty pathetic attempt of a smile as he stood up. He walked out the door, but not before Snape saw him inhale sharply and wring his hands. Snape stared after him, and then glanced back at the Gryffindor table, where Granger and Weasley were whispering to each other. Snape turned to Dumbledore, but the headmaster's eyes were trained on the Slytherin table and had not seen Potter's exit.

Snape sighed. Weasley and Granger were probably right that Potter needed some alone time, but Snape wanted to—oh, he didn't know, not really—make sure Potter was all right. As "all right" as a boy could be on the anniversary of his parents' deaths and just a few days after his godfather had been found dead. Snape got up and left the Great Hall.

The Entrance Hall was deserted, and Snape wondered where Potter would have gone. Gryffindor tower? Doubtful—too many signs of life there, Snape suspected. Potter would want a place completely quiet, where nothing was whispering to him about what he had lost. A safe haven. For Snape, the safe haven had always been the library: he could go in there, bury himself behind books, forget about the world. Would Potter, too, visit the library? It was a place to start.

The library, when Snape reached it, was blessedly quiet. He crept inside, savoring the comforting scent of leather binding and yellowed paper pages. He cast his eyes around, but it was his ears that discovered another visitor. Whether it was a cough or a sniffle or something else, Snape wasn't sure, but he headed toward the noise and hid himself behind a bookshelf. Potter, when he found him through a tiny crack between the books, had situated himself on the floor in a corner where two bookshelves met. He wasn't reading, as Snape would have been doing in his place, but he seemed to appreciate the still silence. Potter closed his eyes and leaned his head against the bookcase, exhaling slowly as he rubbed at his arms. Snape shifted his weight, and his cloak, which had unbeknownst to Snape become caught on a book, fell free, making a flapping noise. Potter's eyes snapped open.

"Who's there?" His voice cracked slightly.

Snape kept silent. Potter would not take kindly to being spied upon.

"Who's there?" Potter repeated, this time sounding a little angry.

Snape still did not make a sound, and Potter jumped to his feet and started pulling books from bookshelves around him to see to the other sides. Snape tried to shuffle out of sight as Potter began to pull a crucial book from the shelf behind which Snape was hiding, but Snape wasn't quick enough.

"Snape." Potter scowled angrily.

Snape met Potter's eyes through the bookcase. He backed up a step wearily and rubbed at his nose.

"Potter." He returned, as if trying to twist Potter's previous accusatory word into a greeting.

There was silence as Potter glared and Snape tried to figure out what to do.

"Are you all right?" He asked finally, immediately regretting it as Potter's face twisted.

"All right?" The teen repeated disbelievingly. "Am I _all right_? I—oh, yes, I'm all right. I'm _fine_." He let out a scoff and started marching toward the library's exit.

Snape groaned inwardly and matched Potter's footsteps until they came to the end of the bookshelves. Potter turned on him when he was that Snape had followed him.

"_What_? What the hell do you want to know?"

Snape grit his teeth. It wasn't as if _he_ knew what he wanted any better than Potter did.

"My parents are dead, my life sucks, my godfather just turned up _murdered_, and I'm surrounded by people who keep asking me if I'm _all right_, I mean, what the hell do you _think_ I am? Oh, yeah, I've never been happier! I'm merry little Harry Potter! Nothing bad ever happens to me!"

"Listen, I know—" Snape began, but Potter cut him off.

"—No, you don't know! Nobody knows—nobody understands! You—you—you don't care about people—you've never _lost_ someone—" and despite his good intentions, Snape lost his temper.

"Never lost anyone, Potter?" He snarled. "You don't know me, Potter—don't pretend you do—"

"—Oh, really?" Potter snapped, his eyes flashing. "Then who have you lost?"

And for an instant her name danced on his tongue, before he bit it. His whole body tense, he hesitated, before admitting, "the mother of my son."

Potter just sneered. "Thought you told Voldemort you didn't care about her."

Snape flinched at the name. "I'm sure I never said that. It was she whom I asked the Dark Lord to spare, whom he killed anyway, because it was more convenient." He wasn't sure why he was admitting this to Potter. Why was he handing the boy knowledge of his greatest weakness?

Potter snorted. "Guess you shouldn't have become a Death Eater, then."

Perhaps he was too weary to be riled up once more, or perhaps the statement simply hit too close to his own regrets; Snape slumped and said only, "Yes. I shouldn't have." His eyes filled with pain: if he had never become a Death Eater, the Dark Lord would never have received the prophecy, and Lily would be alive. If he had never become a Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy would never have Imperiused him to—to do the unthinkable to Lily. Snape had by now turned his face away from the accusing green eyes, unable to bear the weight of their gaze.

He was barely aware that Potter was standing there staring at him, that he was letting Potter see him so vulnerable, so broken. It was Halloween; Lily was dead, and there was no way Snape could undo the harm he had done to her.

It's all my fault, he thought, and was surprised when he realized he had whispered it aloud.

Potter was still staring at him, now looking uncertain.

"Er..." he began tentatively, "what's your fault? Her—her death?"

Snape sighed. "That, and more. I—" He shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself. "Just be thankful you can fight the Imperius Curse, Potter."

They stood in silence as Potter processed this remark.

"But—if you were under the Imperius Curse, then it's not really your fault—"

"—Yes it is. Because I was there. Because I had chosen to become a Death Eater, even though I knew perfectly well that Death Eaters tended to target people like her. Because I had chosen to associate with bastards like Lucius Malfoy and the Dark Lord. It's my fault. It's all my fault."

"I still don't think—"

"—You don't know what I did, Potter. It you knew, you would agree."

There was silence, and then Potter sighed. "It's _my_ fault Sirius is dead."

Snape lifted his eyes to Potter's again, but now the boy's were averted.

"No, it is not."

"Yes it is. They're sure Bellatrix Lestrange killed him. Everyone knows she wants me dead. She killed Sirius to get to me."

Snape blinked. For once, Potter seemed to have come to an astute conclusion, at least to the extent of why Bellatrix would have killed Black. But that didn't make it Potter's fault.

"That is not your fault. No choice of yours led to her desire for vengeance. All you did was survive any attempt the Dark Lord made on your life."

"So if I'd've died, Sirius would be alive."

Snape let out a bitter laugh. "No, Potter. If you had died, Black would have gone after whoever killed you and still have ended up dead. Remember how he went after Wormtail? He only survived that because Wormtail decided to frame him rather than murder him."

Potter still did not look convinced that it was not his fault. Snape sighed.

"Listen, Potter. If you want to blame someone other than Bellatrix Lestrange for Black's death, blame me. I was the one who killed her master and sent her into a frenzy for revenge."

Potter scoffed and shook his head, but couldn't think of a comeback.

"Whatever," he muttered finally. "The point is, he's gone, and I'm alone."

"You're not alone," Snape responded immediately. "You've got Granger and Weasley, haven't you? _All_ the Weasleys, really." And me, part of him wanted to add.

Potter let out a short, grim laugh. "But I don't have any family. My only remaining family—" He pulled out three rumpled letters from his schoolbag—"have always hated me. I can tell, reading these, that the letters were painful for them to write, because they had to admit bad things about themselves. But they don't actually feel bad that they treated _me_ badly—they just feel bad about what those things say about themselves."

He stuffed the letters back into his bag. "I don't want to go back to the Dursleys," he said, more to himself than to Snape.

"You won't have to," Snape assured him. "At the very least, the Weasleys will be glad to take you in all summer, so even if no other guardians besides the Dursleys are arranged, you still will not have to go back to them."

Potter still sighed. "I just—I don't know," he murmured, looking at the library floor, again talking to himself instead of to Snape. "Where do I belong?" And he walked away before Snape could tell him, "right here."

~.~.~.~

**A/N: Uh ohs, that ending got a little sappy. Hmm. Any suggestions? Please review!**


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